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“Come on,” Kurt snapped, “either you want my help or you don’t.”
“The dead men were couriers,” Bradshaw said reluctantly. “Bringing us something.”
“Do you know where they came from?”
Bradshaw shook his head. “If we knew that, there would be no need for this lovely conversation.”
“I suggest you start looking underwater,” Kurt said, “because that man was suffering from DCS.”
“DCS?”
“Decompression sickness,” Kurt said. “Bubbles of nitrogen in the joints. It causes horrendous pain and a hunched-over appearance — if the patient can even walk, that is. You get it from deep, prolonged diving, then surfacing too quickly. Normal treatment is one hundred percent oxygen and time in a hyperbaric chamber to force the gas back into suspension. But wherever this guy came from, I’m guessing he didn’t have the time to go back down. Kind of hard to do when you’re running for your life.”
Bradshaw all but snickered. “He’d just been in a crash, playing stuntman without a seat belt or a helmet. More likely, he was injured in the wreck.”
“He wasn’t limping,” Kurt noted, “he wasn’t favoring one side. He was bent over like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame and unable to straighten up. Those are the most typical effects of a disease commonly called the bends.”
Bradshaw seemed to be considering Kurt’s guess. He sucked at his teeth and then shook his head. “Not a bad thought,” he said, “but here’s why you’re wrong.”
He pointed to a brownish red smear on the bloodstained papers. It was oddly iridescent under the light.
“He was covered in this,” Bradshaw said, “every pore, every fiber of his clothes. So was the last courier we found dead.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a type of soil, called a palaeosol,” Bradshaw explained. “Common in the outback. Not found underwater. If it tracks with the other guy, it’ll contain a mix of heavy metals and various toxins, including traces of manganese and arsenic. Which tells us these guys are opera
ting in the desert somewhere. Not from a submarine.”
“He could have been in a lake and gotten dirty afterward,” Kurt pointed out.
“Have you ever been to the outback?” Bradshaw asked. “The lakes out there are mostly transient. Even during the rainy season — which it is not right now, by the way — they’re shallow and wide. Like your Great Salt Lake.”
Kurt was stumped. “Don’t know what to tell you,” he said, “but I’d stake my reputation on it. That man came up from a depth where he was exposed to great pressure.”
“Thanks for your opinion,” Bradshaw replied. “We’ll be sure to check into it.”
He waved a hand toward the exit.
“So this is what it means to be shown the door,” Kurt said.
Hayley looked as if she’d have preferred to leave with him. Kurt felt differently about her now. A damsel in distress. He wondered once again what her deal with Bradshaw might be.
“Good-bye,” she whispered sadly. “Thank you.”
Kurt hoped it wasn’t quite final. He guessed that suggesting as much would annoy Bradshaw. A win-win situation.
“Until we meet again,” he said. And then he stepped out through the door and left her and Bradshaw behind.
FIVE
Two hours after the incident, Kurt found himself back in his suite at the Intercontinental Hotel. He’d taken a shower, sent a long e-mail to NUMA headquarters, and finished a tumbler of scotch before climbing into bed.
Forty minutes later, he was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the hum of the air conditioner. The events played on an endless loop in his mind. As they did, the questions chased one another in circles.
What was the ASIO dealing with? Why would a man covered in desert dust also be suffering from decompression sickness? And what part was Hayley Anderson playing in all of it? She seemed to be there by her own choice, but she didn’t seem happy about it.
Despite a little voice that told him to leave it alone, Kurt found he couldn’t let it go.
