Disguising Demons Read online

  Disguising Demons

  A Dusty Kent Mystery

  By

  Brigid George

  Published by Potoroo Press 2018

  P.O. Box 235

  Albert Park, Victoria, Australia, 3206

  Copyright © 2018 by Brigid George

  Disguising Demons is Book #4 in the Dusty Kent Mysteries following Murder in Murloo, A Devious Mind and Rippling Red.

  This is a work of fiction. Names*, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental. *One exception is the reference to Mr and Mrs Barnes taken from the author’s life.

  Please note: This eBook uses British English spelling. Readers who are used to American English might notice a difference in the spelling of some words. For example: centre (instead of center), colour (instead of color), realise (instead of realize), travelled (instead of traveled).

  Kindle Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  About the Author

  Further Information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  I was sprinting across the sand, terrified. Dusty was convulsed with laughter. What had started out as a leisurely stroll along the beach had, for me, turned into a surreal experience.

  Having arrived at Cape Tribulation early enough to avoid the groups of tourists, we were the only two people enjoying the broad stretch of soft white sand sheltered by the surrounding hills of the Cape. The silence was disturbed only by the whispered swishing of the ocean.

  Renowned investigative journalist Dusty Kent and I were in Australia’s Far North Queensland to look into the cold case murder of a Buddhist monk. I didn’t know then that it would turn out to be the most disturbing case we had investigated.

  All thoughts of work were put aside as we meandered along the water’s edge watching the foamy wash of waves rippling into shore. Bathed in a sense of peace and warmed by the morning sunshine, I imagined myself on a deserted tropical island as my eyes scanned the ocean all the way to the horizon. People talk about the luck of the Irish; at that moment I knew it to be true. I was one lucky Irishman.

  My illusions were abruptly shattered by an encounter of the prehistoric kind. Were you one of those people who had bad dreams about being attacked by a giant velociraptor after seeing Jurassic Park? That’s exactly what happened to me. In real life!

  A feathered velociraptor sauntered out of the palms and mangrove swamps bordering the beach. This huge bird with its long, bright blue neck and prehistoric crest that looked like a horned helmet ambled across the sand and headed straight towards us. I picked up the faint smell of damp feathers and compost. On top of its two scaly legs perched an ostrich-like body covered in glossy black plumage. I stopped walking. No; I froze in fright. My mouth was probably wide open as well. The tiny part of my brain that was still functioning told me this dinosaurian bird couldn’t actually be a velociraptor. But what was it? A weird species of Australian emu? The red wattle flopping at its neck reminded me of the aggressive bush turkey I’d encountered in Byron Bay. That bird hadn’t liked me either. When it was within a few feet of us, the creature straightened its body, extending its neck to its full height. Jaysis! It was six feet tall.

  Dusty clutched my arm in fright, her nails digging into my flesh, and cried, “Shit!”

  It was not often I heard Dusty swear but she echoed my sentiments exactly; an entirely appropriate response to the situation.

  The avian dinosaur stopped and fixed its large brown eyes on me. Did I say large? Huge brown eyes! To say the beast had an intimidating stare would be an understatement. I could almost believe I’d travelled back in time and foolishly dropped into a world inhabited by giant birds. This was their leader come to dispose of the two human intruders. The creature’s blue head darted from side to side as if listening to the emphatic thump of my heart.

  “Keep walking!” hissed Dusty, relaxing her grip on my arm to pull me forward. Good advice. Why stand and wait to be attacked?

  Without taking my eyes off the feathered dinosaur, I attempted a tentative step forward. The bird inclined its head slightly to one side as if curious about my ability to walk. Together, Dusty and I advanced several steps. Our new companion followed us. The thought of the silent predator behind me methodically placing one clawed foot after the other caused the back of my neck to prickle.

  When I stupidly reminded myself Dusty and I were the only two humans on this beach with no mobile phone coverage, my body became so tense I could have been in rigor mortis.

  “What is that thing? An ostrich?” For some completely irrational reason I was speaking out of the side of my mouth, lest the creature see my lips move.

  “A cassowary. I think she likes you. It must be breeding season.” Dusty was trying to lighten the mood, unaware I was beyond humour.

  “You sure it’s not a prehistoric monster?”

  Dusty dismissed my suggestion with a roll of her eyes. “Cassowaries live in the Queensland rainforests.”

  Cape Tribulation Beach was hardly a forest. Did that mean this one had come out of its natural habitat especially to ‘greet’ us?

  “Is it a carnivore?”

  Dusty chuckled. But I was serious.

  Seeing the look on my face, she hastened to reassure me. “I think they eat fruit.” She urged me forward again. “Let’s keep walking. It might go away.”

  The bird jerked its head from side to side then pointed its beak toward my feet. What did that mean? Was it about to peck my toes off? I faltered, struggling to make my limbs obey the command I was sure my brain had issued. Dusty encouraged me with another tug of my arm. Gradually, we developed a smooth stride. The cassowary didn’t go away; it kept pace with us.

  “Tourists would pay top dollar to have such an up-close and personal encounter with a cassowary in the wild. Relax. Enjoy the experience.” All right for her to say; she was walking with the ocean on one side, me on the other. I was next to Big Bird, basically acting as a shield.

  “Achoo!” Dusty sneezed.
The mood changed. The bird charged toward us. To be precise, it charged at me. It didn’t appear to notice Dusty.

  I ran. But the cassowary seemed to have the speed of a roadrunner. I glanced back briefly to see its long blue neck stretched forward like a racehorse at the finish line. Except I was the finish line. And it was gaining on me. Dusty was left standing on the beach while I tried to propel my body forward at high speed. In my mind, my long legs were spinning around so swiftly they looked like two wheels rotating in flawless synchronicity. In reality I probably looked like a lanky penguin trying to master stilts. It was either this or simply the sight of me being chased by a supersonic prehistoric bird that made Dusty burst into laughter. I failed to see anything funny; my thoughts were on survival.

  I quickly realised I couldn’t outrun my pursuer. An image of myself escaping by scaling the trunk of a tree flashed through my mind. Unfortunately, my path to the trees was blocked by Big Bird. My only chance of escape was in the ocean. I veered off to my left toward the sea. Do these creatures swim, I wondered. Will it follow me into the water? Somehow I managed to remove my sandals while still running, throwing them one at a time over my shoulder hoping to distract the cassowary.

  I ran into the ocean in my knee length shorts and cotton shirt, splashing as much as I could while crisscrossing the shallow section in an effort to confuse the creature behind me. When the water was deep enough to give me some protection, I flung myself in, still splashing for all I was worth. For good measure I yelled at the top of my voice. At any moment I expected to see a dark shadow looming over me. I screwed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see death coming.

  After a few minutes, realising I was still alive, I dared to open one eye.

  At the water’s edge, the bird was using its beak to poke at one of my sandals. Then, probably disappointed that the shoe wasn’t edible, it seemed to lose interest. I yelled and splashed more loudly in case it was about to direct its attention to me and discover I was edible.

  The bird turned its back on me, tucking its long head into its feathers, apparently preening itself, before wandering across the sand. I relaxed and stopped my desperate efforts to frighten the creature. When the cassowary reached the mangroves, I decided I was safe.

  Then I remembered a lifeguard once warning me about splashing attracting sharks. It was too shallow for sharks here. Right? I stood up as gracefully as I could. That’s what the lifeguard had said. Move gracefully in the water. Noise and erratic movements are likely to attract sharks. My heart was pounding so loudly sharks could probably pick it up with some sort of sonar ability. My eyes scanned the ocean for the tell-tale dorsal fin moving from side to side. Nothing. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Then I remembered the crocodile warning signs we’d passed along the road. A crocodile expert in Darwin had told us crocs can lurk below the surface of the water and suddenly leap out to attack its prey. It takes less than a second to be grabbed by a crocodile. It took me less than a second to get out of the water.

  When I was well clear of the ocean, I stopped and looked back. Not a shark or crocodile in sight. Heaving a sigh of relief, I bent over, bracing myself with my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

  I must have looked like an elongated drowned rat when, after retrieving my wet sandals, I strode back to Dusty. She erupted in a fresh peal of laughter.

  Chapter 2

  “Although he doesn’t know it yet, the monk meditating at the top of the hill will not live long enough to enjoy the warmth of the sun. Unseen in the small clearing, he sits in his yellow robes cross-legged on a straw mat with hands resting in his lap, his leather thongs side by side next to the mat.

  “The day has begun the same as every other – with the silent arrival of the dawn and the peaceful retreat of the night. It’s still dark. The birds have not yet started chattering to each other across the tall tree tops. Soon the sun will come up over the ocean. Each morning, its rays weave through the trees; their soft strokes brushing the robes of the monk. His fellow monks, in the buildings a little further down the hill on the other side, cannot see him. He is surrounded by bushland except for a narrow section of the cliff face in front of him. Here, a steep drop descends to a rocky ledge far below and beyond that, to the ocean. Though the morning light is soft on the tips of the leaves, the monk’s mind is on another plane and he does not notice. Nor does he hear the whisper of the breeze.”

  Dusty paused for dramatic effect. With her wild auburn curls piled high on her head, she was dressed for the tropics in a white sleeveless top. Her smooth tanned legs were accentuated in a pair of cocoa coloured shorts. The hush of expectation fell between us before she continued. “Into this serene environment comes a dark shadow; the shadow of evil.”

  Dusty was briefing me for the case we were about to review, adding her own theatrical touches. I’d forgiven her for her display of mirth in light of my perceived life-threatening encounter the day before. Having worked with Dusty on several cases in the past two years, I was used to her sense of humour. In fact, the ability to see the funny side of almost anything was an Australian trait. I had learned early on that being able to laugh at myself was an important pre-requisite for earning the respect of Australians generally. It wasn’t a difficult adjustment for me; we don’t take ourselves too seriously in Ireland either.

  “So he was murdered at dawn?”

  “Pretty much. Based on his usual habits and forensic evidence, he was killed between four thirty and six in the morning.”

  The murder of the monk had not come under Dusty’s purview in the usual way. She normally takes on a case in response to an invitation from family members of the victim. However, this time the invitation had been extended by one of the detectives originally assigned to investigate the murder.

  Detective Sergeant Jake Feilberg, Dusty explained to me earlier, had been a trainee police officer the same time as she had. Dusty hadn’t stuck it out at the Victorian Police Academy. Finding the discipline too oppressive, she’d turned to writing, discovering her niche in investigative journalism. Dusty relished the challenge of solving murder cases the police had been unable to close.

  With a one hundred percent success rate, she soon established an impressive reputation. Jake had stayed in the police, establishing a notable reputation of his own within Victoria Police and later in Queensland. I didn’t know it then, but the moment Dusty renewed her friendship with Jake Feilberg would be an uncomfortable one for me.

  Leaning back in her chair cradling a fresh coconut, Dusty continued. “The monk does not see the killer who sneaks up behind him, smashes his head in with a blunt object and pushes him over the edge of the precipice.”

  She paused to sip the coconut milk through the straw provided then looked at me, shaking her head in puzzlement. Her storytelling persona fell away. A wistful look crossed her face. “For almost fifteen years he’s been living at Sunyarta Sanctuary, a forest community known locally as the monastery. He’s quiet, respectful, committed to the community, and spends most of his time in the garden caring for the herbs, fruit trees and vegetables. He refuses to harm any creatures, even in the garden. If he sees a snail or a slug, he picks it up and relocates it. He volunteers to help in the township once a week by reading to residents of a retirement village. Except for when he had tasks to do on behalf of the monks, he didn’t hang around the town after finishing his volunteer activities, preferring to go straight back to Sunyarta. Why would anyone want to brutally murder someone like that?”

  It’d been a few weeks short of a year since Dusty and I had worked our last case in Darwin. This time we were in Port Douglas within breathing distance of the Coral Sea and about eighty kilometres south of Cape Tribulation Beach where we were yesterday. Port, as it is known to locals, is a coastal resort town home to around 3000 people situated adjacent the Great Barrier Reef and the Daintree Rainforest; both world heritage areas. Apart from what has been termed its ‘seductive climate’ of hot summers and warm winters, Port Doug
las also lays claim to visits by famous people including, in 1996, United States President Bill Clinton and First Lady Hillary Clinton.

  “And in a place like this,” added Dusty. “It seems too tranquil for a vile act like murder.”

  Tranquil. Picturesque. Idyllic. Those were all words that could describe Port Douglas. We had begun our morning with a stroll along Four Mile Beach where the waves swished in to meet a sweeping shoreline of firm white sand lined with tall coconut palms. A friendly old local, a tall man with facial hair typical of Santa Claus, informed us Sir Charles Kingsford Smith had landed his plane on this very beach in 1932.

  Since I’d arrived in Australia, I’d travelled much of the country on my Triumph Thunderbird motorbike and seen many impressive beaches. This was yet another one that took my breath away. The lazy atmosphere and uninterrupted views soon erased my nervousness about the possibility of another cassowary encounter.

  The beach itself was completely free of buildings; just sand, sea and greenery. However, cafes and other businesses lined the esplanade. The cafe we’d chosen allowed glimpses of the ocean through the swaying palms.

  “I agree,” I said. “Murdered in a monastery in paradise seems gruesomely incongruous.”

  “Jake thinks the monk was murdered as an act of revenge against all the monks in the Sanctuary and he believes he knows who did it. That’s why he’s asked me to take the case on. He wants to make sure the killer pays for what he did. Jake was transferred off the case before he had a chance to gather the evidence he needed. Now the case is going cold.” Dusty pointed to the forested headland in the distance which overlooked the town. “Sunyarta Sanctuary’s up there.”

  I glanced up at the hill. Among the trees near the peak I caught sight of the rooftops of the Sanctuary buildings. “The monks must have a spectacular view. I bet the developers would like to get their hands on that land.”

  Dusty screwed up her face at the prospect of the hill cluttered with houses instead of blanketed with forest.