The Blue Ring Assassin

By Keith K. Millheim

Zoe Waringi-Quinn is unique--half Australian aborigine and half Irish Australian, a PhD expert in venomous sea life, and she assassinates bad people. But her dual life is turned upside down when she meets the last living kadaitcha (aborigine mystic) man and his totem a ten-meter salt water crocodile called the Great One.

Upon returning from a field trip Dr. Zoe Waringi-Quinn learns her father had been killed by a hit and run drunk driver who is a Australian Senator. He is exonerated by the courts for lack of physical evidence, but not by Zoe. She sends the Senator to an excruciating death. But Zoe isn’t done. She decides the justice system is broken and resolves to keep removing bad people. Homicide Detective Saul Alpert, who is on her trail, offers her the opportunity to join a mysterious assassination organization that removes people for money. Otherwise he will see her behind bars. To make things worse she finds herself whisked away by an aborigine mystic, Bill Gidgiwarra, to a remote part of Western Australia where he introduces her to a frightful giant ten-meter salt water crocodile. Is it a dream or is it real? Zoe feels like she’s fallen down the rabbit hole and has become Zoe-in-Wonderland. The story expands to her surreal world of assassination and her being able to dream travel, which could either help her or kill her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532093166

Keith K. Millheim

Keith Millheim, PhD was a world recognized petroleum engineer, inventor, innovator, university director in Austria and Oklahoma. He was also an adventurer. He lived and worked in the U.S., Australia, Dubai, Austria, the UK, and worked in Egypt, Iran, West Africa, Algeria, Canada, Timor, Papua/New Guinea, Brazil, Argentina, and Venezuela. Millheim owned and operated gold mines in Western Australia, lived amongst the aborigines in Australia and the jungles of New Guinea. He studied martial arts, was an expert scuba diver and outdoorsman.

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Copyright © 2020 Keith K. Millheim.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-9315-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-9317-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-9316-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020910027

iUniverse rev. date: 06/08/2020

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 Hit-and-Run

Chapter 2 Justice and Jellyfish

Chapter 3 Crime and Punishment

Chapter 4 King Henry

Chapter 5 The Detective

Chapter 6 Truth or Consequences

Chapter 7 The Backgammon Game

Chapter 8 The Dissertation

Chapter 9 Unit 47

Chapter 10 Broken Taillight

Chapter 11 The Hero

Chapter 12 Shark Beach

Chapter 13 Sydney Skyline

Chapter 14 Maroubra Beach

Chapter 15 The Synagogue

Chapter 16 The Ring

Chapter 17 The Austrian and Der Finder

Chapter 18 The Streets of Hong Kong

Chapter 19 Chi

Chapter 20 Reunions

Chapter 21 Free Will

Chapter 22 The Snitch

Chapter 23 Twin Dragons

Chapter 24 The Wedding Present

Chapter 25 The Painting

Chapter 26 Flying Solo

Chapter 27 Decisions

Chapter 28 VH-OAH

Chapter 29 The Wolfe Pack

Chapter 30 Strange Places

Chapter 31 Panic and Chi

Chapter 32 The Malgin: —Alpha One

Chapter 33 No Customs

Chapter 34 Flatlining

Chapter 35 Pasta and the Mafia

Chapter 36 Veal Scaloppini

Chapter 37 The Sticks

Chapter 38 Dr. Blue Ring-Stein

Chapter 39 The Old Way

Chapter 40 Perth

Chapter 41 Zoe in Wonderland

Chapter 42 The Conference

Chapter 43 Sweet Smell of Flowers

Chapter 44 Ocean Rider

Chapter 45 The Deep Ocean

Chapter 46 Assault

Chapter 47 Dead in the Water

Chapter 48 The Great One

Chapter 49 The Milk Bar

Chapter 50 The Spider Web

Chapter 51 The Waringi Event

Chapter 52 Testimonials

About The Author

I can’t move my legs, my arms, my lips, or even close my eyes. I have no pain. I can hear and see the exotic woman looking down at me with sad eyes, saying there is a consequence for what I did, and I deserved punishment. I can feel my heartbeat slowing and can hardly breathe. Now I’m in the water—drifting. I can see the stars above and hear the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks. I’m slowly sinking, and I can’t stop the water from entering my nose and mouth. I remember her last words: ‘I deserved death from the blue ring octopus…’

To my wife Laura who believed in me to become

a successful storyteller and writer.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The concept for this book and others to follow originated from my times in Australia and Papua/New Guinea. For over thirty thousand years the aborigine cultures lived in balance with nature and had a strong and complex spirituality. I was fortunate to have shared time with the aborigines of both countries where I learned of some of their deep-seated spiritual beliefs and customs. Many of their practices and beliefs I’ve embellished in The Blue Ring Assassin. I wish I could remember the names of the two aborigines from Broome, Western Australia and a priest from the Franciscan order and a missionary in New Guinea, who spent countless hours sharing their stories that I could have never learned elsewhere. I also want to thank the generous people of Broome, Derby, and Port Moresby who provided the history and myths of the area.

My other inspiration and support came from the three women in my life: my wife Laura, my daughters Natasha and Alexandra. From them I learned about the woman’s point of view which was central for developing the female characters. Key to the book is the expert editing by Angela Brown and Elizabeth Ward. The book would not be as it is without their help. Writers need support and feedback. A colleague and writer himself, Jim Newman, collaborated with me during the creation of this book. He kept encouraging me to get to the finish line.

I also want to acknowledge three people early in my life who convinced me besides being a successful engineer I could be a fiction writer: Piers Dudgeon, a UK publisher; the late Jay Garon, a New York Agent who discovered John Grisham, and Germaine Greer, the famous Australian author. With their encouragement I believed I could be a good storyteller and author, which pushed me to write numerous books that are ready to be published. The first is The Blue Ring Assassin.

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CHAPTER 1

HIT-AND-RUN

Sydney New South Wales, Australia; September 1981

Dr. Drew Quinn had his head down, bucking the strong headwind as he pedaled his bicycle along Baker Street toward his oceanfront home in Coogee. He had finished his last graduate lecture on sea snakes at the University of New South Wales. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. when he approached the stoplight at Avoca Street and stopped. There was no traffic, and he thought about crossing but waited until the light turned green. He started peddling. Halfway across the intersection he noticed the low beams of a speeding black vehicle that appeared from nowhere, and it wasn’t slowing down.

He sensed the impact. Oh shit. Time slowed as he seemed to be able to see himself as if he were out of his body—a rapt observer—as he was slammed dead center. His body parted with the bicycle and catapulted into the air like a tossed rag doll. He missed the windshield and slid across the car’s roof. Suddenly, he was flying and saw the one-meter tall electrical box coming closer and closer. Shit. He thought to raise his arms to shield the impact but couldn’t make them move. Everything went black.

A searing pain exploded in his head. He blinked. Ah, Jesus Christ. It hurts, and experienced intense waves of nausea. He tried to yell, only to hear a gurgle in his throat. He gagged and spat out a gob of something thick. He managed to glance at his chest to see the clot of blood. His chest heaved, and he felt a spasm of excruciating pain followed by blackness.

He managed to open his eyes again. Help me, for God’s sake. Help me. He listened for sirens, but there were none. He coughed, spitting up another glob of blood. He could hardly breathe. Jesus, the pain. God, take me –

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A man walking on the sidewalk on Baker Street stopped at the crossing. He observed the cyclist cross the road and from his peripheral vision noticed the vehicle speeding toward the red light. He stood, stupefied, as the vehicle never slowed, hitting the cyclist broadside. The man flew into the air, careened over the vehicle’s roof, and landed on the opposite side of the road smacking the tombstone-shaped electrical box. He managed to get a glimpse of the retreating vehicle’s tag, fixing the first letter and following two numbers in his memory as it sped away. He hustled across the street to see the man crumpled behind the electrical box. He wasn’t moving. He leaned over and said, Hang in there, mate. I’m getting some help.

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Senator Wilford Scott thought he felt a jar and some noise overhead, but it was dark, and he didn’t notice anything in the rearview mirror, so he kept going. Twenty minutes later, blinking red and blue lights appeared in the rearview mirror. He glanced at the speedometer and noted he was under the speed limit. Ah, what the hell. I didn’t do anything. He slowed down, pulled over to the curb, stopped, and rolled down the window.

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Police-woman Jessica Baxter exited her patrol car, stopped at the back of the vehicle and noted the tag. She walked to the front and pointed the flashlight at the damaged front grille. She then approached the driver’s side.

Sir, would you please exit the vehicle?

"Why? What have I done? I wasn’t speeding.

Your vehicle was reported leaving the scene where a cyclist was hit.

That’s bloody preposterous, the senator said. I hit no one.

Officer Baxter stepped back from the door and waited as he struggled to leave the driver’s seat. Even where she was standing, she smelled the pungent odor of alcohol. Sir, have you been drinking?

I’m Senator Wilford Scott, lady. And no, I haven’t been drinking.

Then you wouldn’t mind taking a Breathalyzer test?

Did you hear me? I’m Senator Wilford Scott. And no, I won’t take the test…

Sir, if you don’t take the test, the officer said, I’ll have to take your license and impound your car.

Fuck you, lady cop. He tried to push by her to reenter the Mercedes.

She nudged him aside and snatched the car keys from his hand. Sir, I need to take you to the police station. Please follow me and get into my car. Officer Baxter held her ground as the big man glared at her. Finally, he walked to the patrol car, gave a slight shrug, and climbed in.

At the police station, she informed Scott he could make a telephone call, which he did. An hour later Baxter’s supervisor, Sergeant Tim Malloy joined her and Scott in a holding room. He motioned for her to talk to him away from Scott.

Jessica, we have a situation and need to let him go.

What? Are you crazy? The son of a bitch probably just killed a man. Never even slowed down. A witness saw it all. I could tell he was staggering drunk. Smelled of whiskey, and even now would test positive.

He continues to say that he didn’t hit anyone. That you had no reason to stop him.

Baxter sighed. Bullshit. I got the call. Five minutes later I observed a black Mercedes weaving, and when I saw the tag it matched the first letter and two numbers of the hit-and-run vehicle. I hit my lights and pulled him over. Maybe he was so drunk he didn’t realize he hit the man—but that’s hard to believe.

Well, the commissioner himself gave the order to release him, and no alcohol testing. I’m sorry. Just let it go

Shit, this is bloody outrageous. Baxter said. I just got the report from the hospital that he’s DOA. Like hell I’m going to let it go. I’m going to write him up, charging him with hit-and-run, and manslaughter.

Don’t do it, Jessica. It’s your career and you might not like the consequences.

Baxter formally charged Senator Scott, but she wasn’t permitted to test him for alcohol. A solicitor appeared and demanded Scott be released, immediately. Baxter also discovered his car hadn’t been impounded. A tow truck had removed the vehicle by order of someone outside of the police; it just vanished. Off duty for the night, Jessica called a reporter at the Sydney Times.

The next day the Daily Telegraph’s headlines and story surfaced: Famous Sea Snake Scientist Killed by a Hit-and-Run Driver.

Dr. Drew Quinn, riding his bicycle on Baker Street, Kensington, was hit by a driver who ignored a stop light, killing him. The driver fled the scene, leaving Dr. Quinn bleeding on the roadside. A witness recorded part of the numbers of the car license and later the police arrested Senator Wilford Scott. Senator Scott denied the charges, even though police corporal, Jessica Baxter, said Scott had the strong smell of alcohol on his breath, couldn’t walk straight, and observed his Mercedes had a smashed front grille. While Scott was being arraigned, his solicitor and other officials convinced the police to let him go. Scott was never tested for alcohol content at the police station and his car was removed before the police tow truck arrived.

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CHAPTER 2

JUSTICE AND JELLYFISH

Dr. Zoe Quinn, Drew Quinn’s daughter, was north of Sydney with a small contingent of graduate students, on the rocky shores of Lake Macquarie, studying the habitats of the blue ring octopus. She had just returned from the saltwater lake to the motel when she read the Sydney newspaper headlines and immediately called the police who said they’d been trying to reach her with no success.

Two hours later she was in the morgue, staring at her father’s body, not believing her eyes, sobbing, fighting the urge to vomit; but not winning.

Ian Webber, the head coroner, knew Drew Quinn well and had had him and Zoe over to his house for dinner a number of times. He handed Zoe some tissues and waited until she finished wiping her mouth. Your father was a fair-dinkum bloke, Zoe. His sea snake anti-venom saved many lives. He extended his arms. Come here. He hugged her. I’m so sorry.

Thanks Ian. My dad didn’t deserve this. He was the kindest, gentlest man, I ever knew. And the best father I could ever hope to have. She separated from him. Did he suffer? Tell me.

Webber sighed. Do you really want to know?

I want to know everything, every fucking detail.

From what the paramedics told me he had massive internal bleeding, his legs and one hip were broken. Both his arms and one shoulder had compound fractures. I’m pretty sure his spleen was ruptured. Blood filled his lungs. I’ll know more when I finish the autopsy. He had to have been in excruciating pain and drowning in his own blood.

Zoe felt cold anger as he talked. He died in the ambulance?

Mm-hmm. Your dad was dead on arrival. There was nothing we could do. Officially, he died of heart failure.

Thanks, Ian. Could you send me your final report when it’s done?

He nodded.

Zoe leaned over and kissed her father’s forehead. There were no more tears. She whispered, Whoever did this, the bastard is going to pay—I promise you.

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Zoe headed to the police station where she met Jessica Baxter, who was going off duty. She introduced herself as Drew Quinn’s daughter. Can you tell me what happened? Please, I just want to know the truth.

Baxter guided her to an empty office. I’m so sorry for your loss. She gave Zoe a strong embrace. They clung together with Zoe’s head on her shoulder. Then they sat down. Baxter offering her a tissue. After Zoe dabbed her eyes, Baxter started.

That fat, arrogant bastard ran a stop light and hit your dad without slowing down. A witness saw it all and remembered the first letter and two numbers of Scott’s tag. The man contacted the station, and I got the call.

If you had a witness, why wasn’t Scott jailed?

Baxter looked away. I shouldn’t say this, but Scott has powerful friends in Sydney. He made a call, and—poof—he’s free. My sergeant ordered me to release him.

Zoe pressed her. But you still charged him.

Dead right. They couldn’t stop me. You know, he was staggering drunk. Soon as I got near him, he reeked of booze. Baxter told Zoe she would testify for the prosecution. That bastard needs to go to jail.

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Two months later, Zoe entered the courtroom. It was packed, forcing her to find a seat in the back. Up front sat Scott with his phalanx of solicitors and barristers. She expected the chief prosecutor to represent the crown, but instead a young prosecutor was introduced with two junior assistants.

When the judge entered, everyone stood. Zoe noticed a slight smile and nod as the judge glanced at Scott and his entourage. She noticed the start-up of murmuring from the courtroom crowd.

The prosecutor read the charges, noting Scott was given his freedom without a preliminary hearing to at least have bail set. He seemed to be granted privileges even after being charged. The head of the defense stated Scott was innocent and requested all charges be dropped. The prosecution objected, stating there was enough evidence to show Scott had hit Quinn without stopping.

The murmuring in the audience continued. A woman next to Zoe mumbled, Convict the pompous asshole.

Motion denied. The judge looked at the young barrister. Opening remarks …

The prosecutor tried to paint Scott as a drunken driver who didn’t realize he’d even hit someone.

The defense espoused Scott’s illustrious career as a senator for nearly twenty years, and as well as his accomplishments that benefited New South Wales and Australia as a whole. He cited how Scott had championed the Labor’s Party’s tax-reduction bill, increased immigration from Asia, and promoted massive infrastructure funding for Sydney. He dramatically portrayed the senator as a pillar of society, a family man, one who would never do such a thing as a hit-and-run.

The barrister representing Scott, had no trouble countering the prosecutor’s claims and assertions. The case was built around a witness observing the accident, the black car not stopping and the witness remembering the first letter and two numbers of the car’s tag. When it was time to call the witness to give testimony, he was nowhere to be found. The barrister called Jessica Baxter to the stand.

Officer Baxter, your deposition states: Senator Scott appeared visibly drunk, and his breath reeked of alcohol. I observed his front grille was damaged, as though it had hit something hard. Do you assert this is what happened?

It’s accurate. It’s what I wrote.

Officer Baxter, did you ask Senator Scott to take a Breathalyzer test?

I did but he refused.

Mmm, maybe you misunderstood the senator.

The prosecutor stood. I object, your honor. Speculation.

Continue, answered the judge.

So, you have no real evidence that Senator Scott had consumed alcohol.

Baxter stared at the defense barrister. First, I know a drunk when I see one. Second, the senator vehemently refused to be tested. She scanned the crowd and spotted her supervisor who was slightly shaking his head. Fuck you, Malloy. My supervisor told me I couldn’t have Senator Scott’s blood tested.

Mmm, we’ll get back to that later. You asserted Senator Scott’s vehicle had a damaged grille.

I saw it with my own eyes.

Isn’t it standard procedure to have the vehicle impounded? the barrister asked. Why didn’t you?

My mistake. I should’ve stayed until a tow truck arrived. But it was late, and I wanted to move Senator Scott to the station to have him tested—bad bloody decision. By the time I called to have the vehicle towed, it was gone.

Well, Officer Baxter, I have affidavits from the manager and employees of Blue Specialty Repair and Mrs. Scott stating that she drove the vehicle for a rescheduled paint job the following day. He smiled. How do you explain that?

I know what I saw. That bloody car was damaged. They’re all lying.

The prosecutor questioned Baxter as she adamantly stuck to her testimony that Scott was drunk, his car was damaged, and people unknown to her had influenced her superiors not to test Scott and to release him. People protecting Scott had to be involved with the vanished Mercedes.

Senator Scott was called to the stand. He sat with his best political face. In a calm but strong voice he swore he wasn’t near where the accident had happened. The alleged witness couldn’t have seen him since he didn’t even come forth to testify, and there was no deposition. When asked about Baxter’s testimony about the damage to the Mercedes, he scoffed and said Baxter must have been the one drinking, which brought a chorus of chuckles. He said that he called his wife to pick up the Mercedes. He added that his wife, the next morning, drove it to the body shop for some scheduled work. His wife, under oath, confirmed her husband’s account.

During the lunch break, Baxter joined Zoe, walking outside. The policewoman was seething; her cheeks were blotched pink. With a strained face, she said, I fucking don’t believe it. They’re all lying. The bastards. Even my sergeant was in on it. What a fucking world.

Zoe stopped walking to face her. You told the truth. That’s all that counts. Am I angry …mad? Hell, yes. At first, I was furious. All I wanted was to see that pompous bastard convicted. But as the trial proceeded, I realized he was going to get off. She started walking again. Do you believe in karma?

To tell you the truth, I’ve never thought about it.

Well, I do, Zoe said. My mum and dad did. When something bad happened, they always say the law of karma would eventually take rule. As I listened to all the bullshit and lies, I kept thinking about karma for Scott. When he dies, he’ll suffer like my father did. That gives me some peace.

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The court reconvened. With lack of physical evidence, the high-paid solicitors and barrister punished the inexperienced prosecutor. The jury took one day to present their verdict: Not guilty.

Zoe didn’t want to believe her ears, nor could a sizeable part of the audience, who vocalized a resistive booing. Zoe exited the courtroom, numbed by the decision but not surprised. Baxter followed her and put her arm over her shoulder. I’m really, really sorry. Your father deserved justice.

Jessica, you’ve been a real friend through all of this. Thank you. She stood and stared at the courthouse with cold eyes and watched Scott exit with reporters and paparazzi. Someday he’ll pay, one way or another.

Baxter hugged Zoe. What are you going to do, now?

Zoe gave a slight chuckle. I’m going to get fucking drunk and laid in that order. Want to join me?

Baxter smiled. I don’t do men.

Right now, I don’t either. She took Jessica’s arm, and they went to her car. Zoe suggested they go to her apartment. The next morning when she awoke, Jessica Baxter was gone but had left a note:

Zoe,

Had to go. If you ever want to do this again, I’m available. You have my number. Call me.

Jess.

A week later, Corporal Jessica Baxter was transferred to the outback town of Dubbo, New South Wales, population 42,032.

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Since Zoe’s father died, she had been taking care of his home which was now her home. Every day she had tended his saltwater tanks, feeding the sea snakes.

She took a leave of absence from the university and became a hermit except for trips to buy food and wine. She barely ate and drank too much, passing out on a regular basis. Sometimes she’d wake up with a sense there was someone in the room watching her, only to be confronted with the dark empty space and the thump, thump, thump of the ceiling fan. She’d close her eyes and fall back asleep, thinking it was the after-effects of the wine.

No matter how bad she felt, the sea snakes were always tended with loving care. They were part of her father.

While Zoe cleaned a tank that held a turquoise colored kingsnake, she thought, They are so beautiful and graceful. I don’t think any of the creatures in the sea could match the combinations of colors of these snakes—but they’re so deadly. How I’d like to have one of these beauties strike fucking Scott, over-and-over. Tattooed with the thought of revenge, she decided to go out at night for the first time in months and go bar-crawling.

She had the funniest feeling someone was following her, but every time she turned, no one was there. It was nearly midnight when she drifted into the Mercantile Saloon, a known watering hole for many of the yabbos in the rough part of Sydney.

It was a man’s bar, where the only women who frequented were trolling for customers. When she entered, eyes locked on her. Even though she was plainly dressed and without make-up, she knew she attracted attention. She didn’t think she’d be considered beautiful, but her mix of aborigine and white Australian made her interesting-looking. The combination of light brown skin, reddish-dark-brown hair, green eyes, and a shapely body held exotic looks that turned heads.

She walked past the bar near a scruffy, square man with a bulbous head, bull chest, and massive arms. She turned enough to smell his horrible breath and body odor.

Hey, sluzza. How much for a root? He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to him.

She tried to resist, but his grip was too strong. He pulled her to a table, sat down and forced her onto his lap. The other yabbos in the bar yelled, Root the bitch, root the bitch! Zoe felt his rough massive hand going up her skirt. With her free hand she reached to gouge his eyes, but he slapped her so hard her head snapped back, and she thought she might pass out. She sensed him lifting her like a small child, setting her on the table and pressing her down on her belly. When he raised her skirt, she heard a voice from behind her.

I don’t think you want to do that, mate …

The man turned his head and sneered. Fuck off, abo.

She twisted enough to catch a view of the slightly-built gray-haired aborigine with a well-trimmed beard, dressed in Aussie shorts and a white T-shirt with Broome Australia on the front. The man looked comical compared to the brutes surrounding him. He glanced at her and smiled, a pleasing smile with bright white teeth that were accented by his grayish beard. But it was his eyes that seized Zoe’s attention. When he looked at her, they were darkish gray: alive, but when he looked at the brute on top of her, they turned a reddish black like a devil’s eyes.

He walked around the table to face the man, never taking his eyes off of him. The lady doesn’t want you. Besides, you smell like roo-dung. So, I think you should let her go.

Or what? the yabbo howled. You going to make me? The bar crowd laughed with him. Keeping his hand pressed on Zoe’s back, he twisted to face the aborigine man. Now fuck off, abo, before I hurt you.

The aborigine smiled, I don’t think you’ll hurt anyone. He kept staring at the man.

The big man didn’t move; he just stared at the aborigine. He finally released Zoe and staggered backwards, his gorilla arms flailing. He tumbled over a chair and fell onto his back, motionless, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He convulsed and moaned, with globs of white spittle oozing out his mouth.

One person stepped back. "Fuck. Digger’s having a seizure. A small group circled his body, staring at the big man jerking, spitting, making guttural sounds.

The aborigine motioned to Zoe to go to the door. When she didn’t move, he took her hand and a slight shock traveled through her arm, her neck, and into her head as she stared at him. Who the fuck are you?

You have a bad Aussie mouth, Zoe.

Outside the bar, she released his hand. How do you know my name? Who the fuck are you?

He chuckled. Just a friend. He stopped and stared, this time with soft, safe eyes. Go home, Zoe. Get a life. If you want revenge don’t think about it—do it. Now go play with your nasty sea things. They’ll help. He turned and walked away.

Wait. Who the hell are you —?

The man kept walking, and he never looked back, just shook his head.

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Back home, Zoe dreamed strange dreams that she was on the coast, somewhere, collecting blue ringed octopuses and jellyfish. The next morning, she knew what she had to do. She visualized the gray-haired aborigine. Thank you, mate, whoever you are.

It took nearly six months of relentless research, but Zoe managed to isolate the venoms of the box jellyfish and the blue ring octopus. She thought she was the first ever to extract the venom from box jellyfish tentacles. From recorded testimonies of victims, she knew what could happen when someone was stung. With her concentrations of thousands of micro nematocysts in a small vial she speculated how painful and deadly it could be.

One night at the lab in her father’s house, she decided to take one micro amount of her box jellyfish venom on a Q-tip and to touch it her leg. She had a bottle of vinegar ready, as well as a syringe of morphine. Slowly, she advanced the Q-tip until it touched her calve.

Jesus bloody Christ, ah, fuck me! It hurts. Oh, my God … Her bladder released. Ah, shit, fucking stupid. Stupid, stupid. She quickly poured the vinegar over the tiny spot on her calve, but the pain didn’t abate; in fact, it seemed to intensify.

Fuck, fuck. You’re crazy, Zoe. She injected her calve with the morphine and waited for the drug to work. After what seemed like forever, she started to feel some relief.

She lay flat on the concrete floor, her shirt and shorts saturated with sweat. She smelled the urine. Oh, my God, I never want to experience that again. Do I really want to do this to Senator Scott? God, no one deserves pain like that.

She closed her eyes and visualized her father drowning in his own blood, unable to move with his broken bones, and then she pictured Scott walking out of the courthouse, smiling, waving at photographers. She said to herself, Here I come, you fat prick.

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CHAPTER 3

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

Zoe studied Senator Scott, attending opened senate hearings, and following him when she could to restaurants, bars, and once to a sleazy motel where hookers plied their trade. She didn’t have to wait long before a young girl knocked on his door. Ah, I got you, you fucking pervert. She eyed the buxom young teenager, maybe sixteen, entering his room. Apparently, the righteous senator was soliciting young girls to entertain him.

She had asked her graduate assistants to teach her night classes so she could follow the senator. She parked outside his gated house after 6:00 p.m. and watched. When he left in his Mercedes, he usually had his wife with him. Most of the time he stopped at a restaurant or another residence. The waiting and watching was getting boring until one evening he drove out by himself and parked the Mercedes in a mall parking lot. He went to the taxi rank and entered a cab.

The taxi drove to the Kings Cross area and dropped him in front of the Happy Hour Bar. Zoe parked and followed him inside, mixing with the crowd. It wasn’t long before a man approached him. Minutes later, a teenage girl joined them. They talked with Scott who was smiling and nodding vigorously.

Scott left and took a taxi to the Bayside Motel where she’d seen him before. He didn’t go to the front desk; rather he went directly to room 17C, tried the door, and entered. Ten minutes later a car drove up and, dropped off the same teenage girl she had seen in the bar. The girl went into the office holding an envelope, left, and then went to room 17C. An hour later she scurried out of the room and hustled to the street to hail a taxi. Not long after, another taxi stopped in front of the motel, and the senator exited and entered the cab. Zoe followed the taxi to the mall, where the senator got out and entered his Mercedes.

She watched him as he drove through the steel gates. I guess I’m going to have to become a hooker to get close to the bastard.

It took a while, asking question before she learned the pimp was Henry Bibbs. He was sitting at a table at the Happy Hour Bar and approached him. She wore a glittering silver miniskirt and a white pullover that clearly showed her nipples. The jukebox was playing a Jimmy Cliff reggae song she liked, and she sauntered towards him swinging her hips in rhythm to the music. She moved her arms and pursed her lips as she approached. He gave a slight nod for her to come closer.

Come here sexy woman.

And you are?

Henry. Henry Bibbs. He turned to a woman sitting next to him. Dez, get me a brew. I want to talk to this sexy lady. He turned back to Zoe. And what can I call you?

Charlie, Zoe cooed. And I guess I’m in luck. I was looking for you.

Were you now? And why might that be?

I heard you have connections and could arrange a meeting with Senator Scott. I hear he likes to mess around and pays top money for y-you know.

Bibbs smiled. No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?

She rested her hand on his thigh and slid it towards his groin. I hear you are a facilitator, and provide girls for the senator. I’d like to be one of those girls.

Why you? What makes you so special? The senator is very selective.

Zoe unhooked his belt, pulled the zipper down, slid her hand into his shorts and gripped his manhood. Oh, shit. He’s big. Do I really want to do this? Fuck it.

She slid off the chair and scooted under the table to her knees. Thanks for the tablecloth. She pulled his pants open and managed to free his penis. She started stroking him, then slid her lips over as much as she could take. She knew she could give good head, but as he hardened and got bigger, she also knew she had a challenge. She forced herself to continue.

When she felt him about to ejaculate, she stopped and teased him with her tongue. He was squirming and reached down to grab her hair forcing himself deeper into her mouth. She gagged but continued. This time when she felt him about to come, she stayed with him as he unloaded. Oh, my God, when’s he going to stop? When he finished, she came from beneath the table, sat back on the chair, and smiled at him. Do I get the job?

Bibbs’s eyes were almost shut. Goddamn, woman. That was one of the best blowjobs I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot. Yeah, I’ll contact Scott and set it up. He gave her a card with his number on it. "Call me tomorrow. If he’s available, I’ll tell you where to go. He’ll pay you two hundred and fifty, dollars and you pay me a hundred and fifty.

I’ll give you more than that. You can count on it.

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Three days later Zoe received a call, telling her to go to the Bayside Motel, room 17C.

When Zoe arrived and knocked on the door, she heard Scott say, The door’s open, and she entered. He was lying against the headboard with his supercilious smile. God, he looks revolting with those striped boxers, his fat arms and legs and belly. I feel sorry for his wife.

She entered holding a bottle of Shiraz and sat on the edge of the bed, forcing herself to look at him and smiling.

I see you brought refreshments. Good.

She nodded, uncorked the bottle, and filled two plastic cups. With her back to him she dropped into one cup two crushed Rohypnol pills which would kick in much faster as powder. She handed him the cup and they toasted.

Hey sweetie, Scott said. Why don’t you get comfortable, and take that sexy skirt and top off?

Zoe turned on the clock radio and dialed until she found a soft rock station. She started dancing, swinging her hips, slowly unzipping the back of her skirt, then wiggled it off. She continued the slow, gyrating dance, touching her nipples and fingering her groin area. You like this, honey?

Obviously, he did, as she noticed the small bulge in his boxers growing. His eyes following her every move, his mouth partially open.

Take off your top, he slurred.

She cupped her hands over her breasts, tweaking her nipples until they were hard and erect. Next, she went to the bed and slowly lifted her top. She knew she had alluring breasts, pointing east-west with large nipples. The men always went for them straight away, wanting to suck and lick the nipples, kiss and feel them. God, I think most of these blokes never had enough of their mum’s tits as a baby. Wanna to feel them, love? Go ahead, feel—them.

Yeah, come here, Scott said, opening his arms.

She climbed onto the bed, stood over him, her legs spread apart, and slowly dropped to sit on his groin. She leaned forward. Go ahead, suck them. She moved into his face so that his lips almost touched her nipples. When she felt his tongue, it took all her resistance not to pull back. She closed her eyes, letting him continue. Scott slowed down and stopped. She opened her eyes to see that his were closed. He was fast asleep.

Thank you, roofie, she mumbled. She dressed, bolted the door, and pulled his boxers off.

Fuck me. Why do these fat blokes have such small cocks?

She took four strands of rope and tied his ankles and wrists tightly to the bedposts.

She had two syringes ready with the blue ring octopus-venom and the box jellyfish venom. She would decide which one to use when he woke up.

It was nearly dawn when Scott’s eyes flittered open. He noticed she was sitting on a chair next to the bed. What the hell? Why am I tied up? Is this Henry’s idea? If it is, I’m not amused. Untie me. I’m an Australian senator, you know.

Zoe bent over, scanning his body, then reached down and flicked his limp penis. Yeah, I know who you are. Do you know who I am, Senator?

Yeah, you’re one of Henry’s whores. He said you were something special. Untie me.

She kept flipping his limp penis. The little guy doesn’t want to stand up, does he?

Scott struggled against the ropes. Untie me, bitch.

She yanked his penis.

Owww! he bellowed. That hurt, you cunt!

Talk nice, or I’ll pull that thing and really make you yell. She watched his confused face. Well, I don’t want to keep you guessing, do I? Remember Dr. Drew Quinn?

His eyes opened wide.

Of course, you do. You ran a stop light and hit my father broadside, you piece of shit.

The senator’s face was molding into concern. The court found me innocent.

That’s the court. That’s not me, you fat prick. Don’t try to lie to me because I know you did it.

Scott struggled against the ropes but finally stopped, panting. What do you want?

Zoe leaned over until her face was inches from his. I really don’t know. At first, I wanted to just kill you, but now I want to try an experiment.

His eyes were locked on her as she took a syringe and held it up for him to see. She stuffed a washcloth into his mouth so all he could do was grunt and utter animal noises. She moved the syringe until it was inches from his eyes. I’ve concentrated these little golden particles in the syringe. It’s kind of my own innovation—maybe I’ll even patent it.

Scotts eyes bulged. Mm-m—ah…

Zoe smiled. I guess I’d be concerned too if someone was going to inject me with box jellyfish venom.

He frowned like he didn’t understand.

You politicians are really an ignorant bunch. The cubozoa cnidaria—or box jellyfish as it’s commonly known—is a nasty beasty. Did you know one jellyfish tentacle has enough venom to kill thirty people? It’s a neuro-toxin and quite painful.

She climbed onto the bed and sat lotus-style, facing him. As a good scientist I even tested a tiny-tiny dose on myself right here. She pointed to a small reddish area on her leg. The pain was so excruciating; I can’t describe it. I thought my leg was on fire, and my heartbeat was like a snare drum. I even peed myself. Ugh, quite disgusting.

Zoe held up the syringe for Scott to see. It took a while, but I learned how to extract the nematocysts that injects the toxins once the creature senses prey. Look closely, and you can see little gold-looking things. The rest of the fluid is just harmless salt-water.

She had to admit she was enjoying the moment as Scott’s eyes were darting between her and the syringe, sweat bleeding over his face, his breathing short and intensifying.

I was going to give you the venom of the blue ring octopus, but I decided to save that for a party with Henry.

She pointed to the other syringe on the nightstand. "When I finish with you,