Dead Leaves

By Dominic White

Meet Tom Logan, a deadbeat alcoholic private eye. who's not fussy about who he sleeps with, or what side of the law his next job comes from.

His best friend hands him a dodgy job.

A psychopath cutting up cattle is one thing but falling over a skeleton is another.

When Logan investigates, he stirs up a nest of trouble, and a ghastly evil he could never have imagined existed.

 Now he's in deeper than ever, in danger of losing his life, his soul, and what he loves most.

(Warning: Sex scenes, frequent explicit language and dark themes)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dominic White
• Release date: Jan 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201794484

Book preview

DEAD LEAVES

DOMINIC WHITE

PART ONE

Chapter One

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED in bed.

On a cold, godforsaken, wet Melbourne Monday morning.

The rain splattered my windscreen.

A damp chill biting into my fingers, through my gloves.

The air con was long dead and gone.

On a steering wheel icy with night long cold. Wipers slapping at the rain, a flat, two step dance.

I drove for an hour. Through the South-Eastern corner of Melbourne. Then off the freeway and out onto a main road. Lonely forest.

Drove down from the road onto a track.

Overhanging trees.

Dark, dripping shapes of old tree trunks. Long, low, thick-knotted bushes, necklacing the bottom of the landscape, thorning and piercing it.

The road potholed and bumpy, the car shaking.

Pieces of road on the side washed away.

Deep, dark, ditches along each side.

Like the deep, dark places in the corners of my mind.

I drove up to the driveway of a house and flashed my high beam at the gate.

Car lights flashed back, then again.

Through the rain I could see two guys get out of it and walk down the drive.

Hurry up, you bastards.

They opened the gate. I drove through and opened the doors for them.

They closed the gate and got in.

I'm Tom Logan, I said.

Pieter Johanssen. said the first one. He didn't bother to shake hands.

A big man. Pulling off his rain hood. Bald at the front and down the middle. What was left of his hair was blond. Clear, pale blue eyes. Thick set.

Looks like someone you don’t really want to mess with. Do business with, but probably not drink with or laugh with.

Dressed in a leather overcoat. Blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Early morning stubble.

I looked at the guy's tattooed hands.

They were hammers.

George Morris, said Pieter. He pointed to the other.  He helps me out a bit.

Mind if I smoke, said George, lighting a thin cigar.

George blew a cloud of smoke into the roof and coughed phlegm from deep down in his lungs.

What do we have here? I eased the car forward.

The rain was coming down harder. I turned up the wipers.

A real bloody mess, that's what, said George.

His face was an old brown paper bag, creased and patched. Eyes drooping and heavy lidded. Saddlebag eye pouches. Crooked brown gravestone teeth. He wore a thick oilskin coat and bushman’s type cowboy hat. Rainwater was running off his hat, down the creases in his face, and down his back.

Soaking into my car seats.

Tony Costello told me you were good, said Johanssen.

I usually just look for people. Did Tony tell you that?

Yeah, that you can find people. Or you’re good at tracking people down, or something.  Plus, you play the game, you keep your mouth shut.

Tony would have told you all about what I do, what I’ve done, I said. He should have also told you I usually just stick to what I do best. And that I don’t often do jobs I don’t like.

Neither do I Logan. Neither do I. 

Eyes pale. No anger, temper. Mild, embarrassed amusement.

Like you might look at a small child saying fuck.

You find the arsehole who’s doing this, Logan. You find him and I'll fuckingwell kill him.

I STOOD HARD ON THE accelerator.

Get this car across a country track full of frigging mud.

Rain pouring. My lights danced along the track. Rain eased to a ghostly mist. I coughed the acid cigar smoke, wound down the window. 

Rain and cold air rushing in. Shit.

Like through the open door of a backyard toilet.

Stop. Johanssen raised his hand. He pointed a finger.

Forty-five degrees to the left.

I can’t see nothin’ except fuckin rain.

Angle off here. The track ahead is flooded. Stop near the fence line when you see it. Careful, it’s hard to see.

It took five minutes; we rocked and pitched along the mounds and troughs. Once or twice I thought we’d tip over.

Finally, the fence loomed up ahead.

I stopped.

Johanssen threw open the door.

Two choices. We can jump the fence – then it’s a minute or two ahead. Or we can play it safe and walk along the fence line to the next gate – it’s about ten minutes that way?

Let’s walk, I said.

Big mistake.

George and Johanssen jumped out. They were both wearing gumboots.

Bastards. I wasn’t.

Mud. Cake mix mud. Slop topped by new rain.

I stood on something, not quite mud, not quite grass, and staggered.

Jesus Fuck.

Slipping and stumbling.

The mud got worse. Johanssen, ahead, held up his hand and waved his torch, then pointed it.

Down into a ditch. Water at the bottom. They splashed through it. I got behind. Water flooded my shoes, froze my ankles.

They had to take a running jump at the other side to get up. Then it was Johanssen’s turn to stumble and slip.

I caught up with them and stared. For a long time.

Down in the dirt. Man, animal or plant.

Dead, none of us are different.

Jesus F. Christ, I said.

Some of us just look different when we are dead.

I was staring at three cow carcasses in the mud.

All had been gutted and the heads removed.

Chapter Two

***

Jesus eff.

I turned away and retched, bile rising dangerously high in my throat.

Who did this – an Anatomy one oh one dropout?

George strode into the circle of death.

Yep. He stood, legs apart, waving his arms. All of ‘em, gutted, like I said.

"What sort of sick fart does something like this? Killing and cutting up cows for Christ’s sake?"

You find out who for me Logan. This is the third time.

I held down a lurch in my gut. The taste was thick and bitter in my mouth.

The rain fizzing off again.

Like I said.......I don’t normally do this sort of thing, Johanssen.

Tony said you're pretty good. And you’ve done some similar sort of work before; you’ve worked for people like me. And that you can’t be bought off, you don't talk. That’s good enough for me.

Yes, said George again, lovingly describing what we could already see. Gutted. Decapitated. All three of ‘em. Look at this grass. Guts, blood, shit and sliced udders and everything. Found ‘em at nine.

So you found ‘em? I looked at him. I thought Pieter, here, did.

The dogs. I usually get the farm dogs fed about six. Then I take them out for a long walk. When we get back, I put them in the vehicle and drive around a bit. Check up and stuff.

So you work for Pieter?

A bit, said Morris. A bit of everything. With the cows, dogs, goats and other things. Used to be a vet.

He looked at Johanssen for a minute, then turned away, staring into the rain.

He does some work around here for me, yeah, said Johanssen.

George turned back again.

I got to the paddock. The dogs started to go crazy in the back. I thought they’d smelled some kids. They have hung out around here sometimes. When I let them out they ran right here.

Kids? What would they be doing out here? This time of year? What do you think, George?

Kids. Homeless and drug addicts. Definitely. They get up here every now and then, get drunk, throw up, take drugs, shit everywhere and fuck. I chased some off just a couple of days ago.

Cold, icy rain coming down. Again. Fast, in fat drops.

Find out quickly for me, said Johanssen.

There’s no quick. It takes as long as it takes. Quick often means a quick screw up.

Well, we’ll talk at the house. I’ll give you the number of a guy called Stan Darcy. Has a local business around here. And he works with me, as well. He’s been in the USA. I spoke to him over there yesterday. He’s due back the day after tomorrow.

Yes, said George, talking to no one in particular. All of them. Look at those slashes.

He bent over and stared at the ground. Even more blood, if it hadn't been pissing down rain.

Johanssen winked and pointed to the car. We trudged over the mud toward it. Johanssen stopped when we got there and pointed back at George.

Bloody old weirdo. I just keep him on to look after the animals.

He looked me up and down, as if wondering what to say.

Look. Darcy's actually a sort of business partner. He’s the one you need to talk to first. He’ll give you any information you might need to get started.

He pulled a card out of his wallet and wrote down a number and address.

Call him.

George finished staring at the corpses and walked back.

NOW BE HONEST.

There's days when you know you shouldn't have got out of bed.

Isn't there?

And other days.

Days when you know you shouldn't have woken up at all.

AT ABOUT THREE A.M., that morning, I’d seen the phone message.

A message from my old mate. Tony Costello. Said he had a job for me.

My tongue like an old gardening glove.

The room in darkness. Smell of pizza and fried egg everywhere.

I yawned, groaned and stretched. Sat up. Realised I was still on the couch.

Fuck it. Anna had gone.

Three empty bottles of red on the coffee table. One rolled onto my knee and bounced off it. Ouch.

The odd beer can or six, crunching under my foot as I stood up from the couch. I tripped over a power cord, cursing.

Where the hell was Anna?

And why could I smell both pizza and egg?

I’d turned on the tap hard and, a towel around my shoulders, threw enough water on my face to drown myself. Gaspingly cold.

Hazel eyes, dark brown hair and moustache. Good skin, not too pale.

That's me.

Tom Logan.

Third generation Bog Irish.

Pulled a brush back through the hair.

Not too grey, at least. Peppery, let’s say. Still refuses to go bald yet. Still look half-decent for a forty-five-year-old guy.

Eyes bit baggy, neck bit scraggy. Skin not quite as smooth. Bit of colour and man make up, I could look thirty.

And I’m still pretty good looking. For an oldish fart. 

Except at three in the morning.

COUNTRY KITCHEN. THE smells of coffee in a pot and eggs frying. Bacon sizzling and crackling. I dried my feet in front of a fire.

George sat at the table. Long, sad, creased brown face. Eyes down like a basset hound.

All of em. Heads gone. Gutted. Just like the last ones.

Johanssen. Throwing more wood onto the fire.

The wood smoking and crackling. Johanssen wandering from kitchen to lounge to dining room. Back to kitchen. The smell of bacon grease and egg filling the air.

The kitchen was wide but crammed. Dark stained wood and parquet floor. Copper pots, pans, utensils of every sort hung off the walls. Across from the dining area an elegant, sculptured timber archway opened up into a black leather furnished lounge. Several bookcases with hardcovers and paperbacks of various sizes. I walked across and looked. Farming books, mostly.

The place was so big, there were three hallways leading off from the lounge.

Down the end of one hall, on the left side, was a big glass cabinet. I could see two shotguns and some rifles in it.

As I sat down, I noticed a piece of sticky gunk had somehow half worked its way off my shoe and onto the carpet.  I tried to pull it right off with my finger. Must have picked it up in the paddock.

Johanssen put plates on the table and sat. We ate.

George got up and brought the coffee. We drank.

We looked at each other.

Johanssen finally spoke. Here’s the deal. Three times in the last three to four months I’ve found this. Dead, mutilated cows.

I drank my coffee.

Tony said it might have been someone who works for you.

I got the gunk off. It stuck to my finger. I put my hand under the table, tried to flick it off.

Well, it might be. Who the fuck knows?

Well, where do these kids come from?

Johanssen looked at George, who curled