Color of Blood(30)

Dennis, for his part, perceived an odd sensation of lightness, as if several large objects had just been taken out his pockets and thrown from the plane. He turned and stared at Judy, her hair partially shielding her face as she peered down at the magazine.

***

From the air the town of Carnarvon looked like a brownish clump of seaweed on an endless ochre ocean. The airport sported a simple T-shaped runway with several small terminal buildings. Nothing but red soil and emaciated plant life surrounded the runway. Dennis and Judy departed onto a small, rolling set of steps and walked across the gluey, hot tarmac. Halfway to the tiny terminal Dennis found that about a dozen flies had settled on the front of his shirt.

He brushed them away, and they resettled, some onto his neck and face.

Judy laughed. “Meet our good friends, the bush flies.”

“Do they bite?” Dennis brushed more of them away.

“No, but they’ll drive you mad if you let them.” She brushed at one that had settled on her cheek.

Soon afterward they were riding out of town, heading south along a paved, two-lane highway. Dennis’s sunglasses turned the bleak red-and-brown countryside into a bleaker black-and-white version. Red dust and stunted, forlorn bushes and grasses spread out to the ends of the earth.

After nearly thirty minutes, Judy slowed at a small road sign and pulled onto a dirt road that ran perpendicular to the main highway. Judy had spoken to a policeman on her mobile phone twice already and was frustrated by his directions.

“This better be the bloody road,” she murmured as they flew down the silt-lined path, leaving a trail of dust behind them.

“Why in the hell would he come way out here to snorkel?” Dennis asked. “Do people do that?”

“Yes, some do. Shark Bay is a big tourist area.”

“You know, I was looking through my notes, and it seems that only Garder’s friend, Roby, mentioned that he snorkeled. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

“I suppose,” she said. “But he did seem like an adventurous sort, so it’s not surprising. Ah, here we go.”

Dennis could finally see a long, low mound in the distance, running from left to right, that he took for a barrier sand dune demarcating the beach and ocean beyond. And to his surprise, he could finally see several cars ahead. A man waved at them; something on his chest sparkled in the sun’s rays.

Judy forgot to slow down gradually, and her abrupt stop stirred up a cloud of dust and sand, forcing the three men to shield their eyes.

“Blast,” Judy said as she realized her breach of outback etiquette.

The introductions were slow and stilted. All three men repeated “G’day” to Dennis and shook his hand vigorously.

Dennis was struck by the searing heat radiating from the sand. The sun, directly overhead, cast small shadows hugging each person’s feet. There were virtually no bright colors: just white, gray, brown, and a dull ocher. He blinked several times to lubricate his eyes, but it did not help.

They walked through a spongy sand-soil mix to a forlorn-looking maroon Toyota covered in a thick layer of pale dust. Dennis could feel the heat reflecting off the metal car fender and took a small step back. Farther ahead, a thin path led through low spinifex-covered dunes to the beach.

“Has the car been dusted inside?” Dennis asked, panting slightly.

“Yes,” Judy said. “Mostly Garder’s prints, some from his friend, Roby, and one set we can’t match yet—but we’re working on it.”

On the back seat was an Adidas bag. Dennis opened the back door and was met by a rush of hot air. He poked through the bag and found a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a clean pair of underwear.

He bent down, putting his face inches away from the carpet floor covering, and holding his sunglasses in his right hand, scanned the entire area. The air temperature inside must have been at least one hundred twenty degrees, Dennis guessed, as a bead of perspiration slid lazily down his right temple. He stopped at the transmission hump and looked closely at a small, dark spot the size of a pencil eraser.

“How about latent fluids?” he asked. “Was that done?”

“No,” Judy said, consulting a sheet of paper. “Do you want it tested?”

“Not yet.” He stood up and stretched his back.

On the front passenger seat was a printed map from MapQuest. It gave directions from Garder’s apartment to a gas station nearby. An empty Diet Coke can sat in the cup holder.

“We found this under the front seat,” the police officer said, holding up a ziplock bag. Dennis took it and opened it. The car keys were attached to a simple Toyota keychain. Garder’s wallet was black and worn at the edges. Flipping it open, he counted three hundred ten dollars.

He dropped it back into the bag and handed it to the officer.

“So, what’s the story here?” he said. “Our guy drives way the hell up here by himself and goes snorkeling. And he gets eaten by a shark? Sounds a little too much like Jaws, if you ask me.”

Judy found herself fighting to contain a smile. Initially, she had been aghast at Dennis’s rough style of inquiry, especially with the watch-store owner. But now she found it amusing and even interesting.

“Mr. Cunningham, as the regional manager of in Western Australia, I’d like to answer that,” said a short man with a wrinkled, bronze face. He wore a white, wide-brim hat pulled down slightly at the ears. “As you can imagine, we have sharks along all our coasts in Australia. Tragically, it’s not uncommon that man and shark come into contact. This appears to be the case for your Mr. Jansen.”