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there were several men, and that something was being dragged.
    He waited until they were well clear and then, with the stealth of a wraith he returned to the campsite near the Adelaide River. No sign of Greg. No rifle left behind. No signs of a struggle. But there was a trail of broken twigs and footfalls in the grasses.
    The sun was on the crest of the horizon, bringing colour to the landscape. The jabbering noises of the birds carried on the warm breeze. Walter felt a pang of fear for his friend and began following the path taken by the hunters. He heard the squeals of a pack of wild pigs somewhere along the nearby riverbank and then, a little later on, the cry of his own name.
    Greg Kovacs was screaming out for him.
     
    There was a fork in the riverbank where it turned to follow the side stream. It was from this point that Walter first caught sight of Greg, much further along the bank by the fast running water.
    It was a sight branded forever into the dark places of his mind.
    The crocodile, an enormous seven footer, had clamped its jaws down around the ranger’s right leg. In order to break its prey free from the restraining ropes, the creature began to jack knife its body in a series of rolls. High pitched shrieks of terror filled the air, then suddenly stopped, as the reptile tore the torso of its victim from the restrained limbs.
    Walter raced forward, his rifle firing at the creature despite the obvious fact it was far too late.
    Blood thickened the water, bubbling furiously with the current. The creature, the remains of its prey held firmly between clenched jaws, glided back into the main sweep of the river. Then dived.
    It had happened so quickly. Walter lowered his rifle and stood on the bank, a forlorn figure, watching the swirling river as the red stain quickly dispersed. From somewhere deep inside the voice of survival prodded him out of his shock: the hunters would still be searching for him and their monstrous intention was clear.
    He ran into the cover of the surrounding swamplands. It would be too dangerous to return to the camp. Instead he would travel without rest back along the river to the point, clear of the swamps, where he and Greg had left the four-wheel drive. It was close to two days away on foot but he planned to reach it sooner, without stopping, without sleeping.
    At some stage during the hours that followed, as he moved silently through the brush, he realised that the torn limbs of his friend still hung from those ropes, and that by then the scavengers of the Outback would be feeding on them. He continued to run as night fell but he didn’t hear the sounds of the wilderness or the cacophony of the birds. His ears still rang with Greg Kovacs’ screams and Walter was sure that he would continue to hear them, constantly and endlessly, for the rest of his life.
     

 
     
     
     
CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
     
    Kate Kovacs loved the twenty-minute drive along the coast road to the Westmeyer Research Institute. She wouldn’t have minded if the drive were longer. Since her arrival in Northern Rocks she’d enjoyed travelling to and from work, all because of that marvellous road. There was nothing quite like the broad, blue strip of the Pacific on one side, the lush, green hills and forest on the other. And the pelicans, the glorious pelicans.
    Flashback: sitting with office manager Betty at A.B.C.S. HQ, Betty having accessed local data on Northern Rocks, telling Kate: ‘This is the kind of assignment you IT nomads dream of. Picturesque, old style township with lots of outdoor cafes, and a beachside promenade. A long history of fishing and farming. Two decades ago a hotel chain opened a resort there, tourism boomed, lots of money moved in. Noted for its pelicans, they love the rocky islets there, it’s a major nesting place.’
    Kate didn’t know a great deal about William Westmeyer, but he certainly knew how to choose his locations. He couldn’t have chosen a more peaceful spot when he’d arrived