Taj watched Kim move around the kitchen, going through the motions, making coffee and hot chocolate. Her face was deathly white. This wasn’t the time to tell her what he’d discovered about Ben Steele.
He sat with the children at the table. Jake quiet. Abbey weeping in a steady stream, as if it was now her normal way of being. Without thinking, he opened his arms. She moved into them, and buried her head in his shoulder. Poor child, she must be nearly out of tears.
‘Dusty loves you, little one. He wouldn’t want you to cry.’
‘But he doesn’t want to be dead,’ she said between sobs. ‘He wants to come back. He’s lonely.’
‘No, no. He misses you all, but he isn’t lonely. He’s happy, playing with his mother and father.’ He gently lifted Abbey’s chin. Kim had stopped to listen. ‘It is you who are lonely without him, yes?’
Abbey nodded.
He gave her a tissue from a box on the table, and she blew her nose.
‘Our daddy’s dead. Is he happy too?’
‘Of course. He has plenty of friends in heaven, right?’
Kim sat down, a little more colour in her cheeks.
‘There’s Grandma, and Poppy, for starters. And Ron and Macka. Auntie Joan.’
‘And Scout,’ said Jake. ‘He was our other dog. I wish he could meet Dusty. Do you think Scout will meet Dusty?’
Taj’s smile was one of infinite reassurance. ‘Oh, I’m sure he will,’ he said. ‘Since you have wished it, Jake. Heaven is a magical place where wishes come true.’
‘How do you know so much about heaven?’ asked Abbey.
‘Many people I love live there.’
Abbey had stopped crying. ‘Mum, why didn’t you ever tell me that heaven was magical?’
Kim looked bewildered. ‘I don’t think I knew myself.’
‘Does it make you feel better, now that you know, I mean?’
‘Why yes.’ She pulled Abbey into her for a kiss. ‘Yes, it does . . . Could I talk to you alone for a minute please Taj?,’ said Kim. ‘Outside?’
He followed her onto the verandah, wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, the way he had done for Abbey.
‘Dusty was shot in the head, wasn’t he?’
Taj took two empty shell casings from his pocket. ‘I found these, and tyre tracks.’
‘Of all the vile, despicable acts.’ She ran her hand over the railing of the verandah, the painting he’d done worn in now, no longer new. ‘Geoff Masters was here this morning, making threats.’
‘What sort of threats?’
‘Against the dingoes. There’ve been signs left on the gate as well, some awful texts.’
Taj felt sick. What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he ever there when people needed him? ‘Have you called the police?’
‘That would really endear me to the town, wouldn’t it?’ She searched his face. ‘Is there any way you can tell who killed’ – she struggled to say the words – ‘who killed Dusty?’
‘Maybe. I’d need the —’
She held up her hand. ‘I don’t want to know. Take Dusty’s body, if it helps.’ Her voice broke. ‘We can bury him later.’
This was his fault. He should have been there to protect Dusty. To protect them all. ‘Shall I stay?’
‘No, I need time alone with the kids – to decide what to do.’ There was that haunted smile again. ‘What you did for Abbey, telling her about a heaven filled with magic and miracles . . .’
‘I’m sorry, I spoke out of turn.’
‘No, you helped her a lot.’ Her eyes held his. ‘I think you helped me too. Is that an Islamic belief?’
He bowed his head, suddenly shy. ‘No, it is only my belief.’
‘Well, now it’s mine too.’ Kim caught his large, rough hand in her small one. ‘There was a time I didn’t want Dusty. Now I’d sell my soul for one more day.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Find out who did this.’
Taj couldn’t remember driving home. Dusty’s death had dredged up memories of a time in his life that he’d crossed the world to forget. He settled the dogs, then went inside. In his bedside drawer was a pouch he hadn’t looked at since coming to Australia, though for many years he’d carried it in a shirt pocket, close to his heart. He took it out now. Inside was a handful of sand, and the photo of a black wolf with piercing yellow eyes. Aakil. Taj lay on the bed, allowing the tide of emotion to wash over him. A surrender. He closed his eyes, and he was back in the shadowy forest of the Hindu Kush, following a wolf trail through stands of cedar and blue pine.
Taj took off his muddy boots, and pushed through the ivy at the back door. Spring in Nuristan had come early this year, the garden bursting with new growth. Camila sat at the table, stuffing small plastic gift bags with toothpaste, toothbrushes and floss. Freebies for patients coming to the mobile dental clinic the following week.
She looked tired. Taj swept back the lock of fair hair escaping from her scarf and kissed her. Camila laughed, and pushed him away in mock distaste. ‘Can’t you wait until you wash up?’
‘No.’ Taj hungrily reclaimed her lips. As much as he loved his job, being away from Camila so much was pure torture. He released her, flushed and smiling. He wanted to take her to bed then and there.
Instead he went to the kitchen and washed his hands in a bowl at the sink. ‘Poachers are on the move,’ he said. ‘Malik found an abandoned camp, the remains of a moon bear and her cub. He said they were heading for Wadi Gorge.’
Camila’s lovely face creased with concern. ‘Aren’t the wolves there?’
Taj nodded. ‘They’ve denned in readiness for Zahra to give birth. Malik and I will hike out to check on them in the morning. But first, I must take you to your parents’ house.’
‘You just want an excuse to visit Aakil.’
He couldn’t deny he was looking forward to seeing the orphaned black cub he’d raised from birth. Aakil may be grown, and leader of his own pack now, but they were still brothers. Camila glided over, pressed against his back and put her arms around his waist. ‘I don’t want to stay with Amma. She fusses over me, makes me drink milk.’
‘Good.’ Taj spun her round, stroked her growing belly. ‘I’ll be gone just a few days, a week at the most.’
‘That long?’ Camila’s lips found his, feather-light at first, then more demanding. He swept her into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom.
He and Malik set off at first light. Their driver took them as far as he could. At the end of the road, they unloaded guns and gear, hefted their packs and walked off into the wild western forest. Sunshine glanced off snow-capped peaks. Wildflowers bloomed in grassy clearings. Delicate buds of alder and birch unfurled in bursts of emerald green, and the air was aromatic with pine needles. A place of vast beauty.
The poachers’ camp lay a two-hour march from the road. No attempt had been made to hide it or the skinned bodies of the bear and her tiny cub, whose heads and paws had been cut off. These were brazen men. Taj examined the carcasses, no more than two days old. The meat had been abandoned, not something opportunistic locals would do. This was a well-organised hunting party, and he and Malik were outnumbered. They counted the tracks of five men. It would take all their ingenuity to arrest them, but they’d done it before. The element of surprise was on their side.
Rugged Wadi Gorge was a two-day hike away, at the tip of a remote valley, where the broad Pashtu River flowed between high granite cliffs. Zahra’s tracking collar told Taj the hand-raised pack had selected Wadi for their den site. A wise choice. The valley boasted an abundance of wild goats, hares and ibex. It boded well for the wolves’ first breeding season.
It was a hard climb at first. They needed ropes to navigate the narrow rocky overhangs. At one point Malik slipped, falling metres down a shaly scree, his fall broken by a spindly juniper tree, clinging recklessly to the cliff face. Yet, despite these setbacks, they were gaining on their quarry, who were laden down with skins.
The poachers had set snares as they went. Taj removed them one by one. He released a little beech marten, and two jungle cats trapped by their paws. At lunchtime they passed where the poachers had camped last night, a level clearing below a cliff face. They exchanged tired smiles – they were only half a day behind. Flayed bodies lay scattered on the ground: ibex, foxes, even a rare Marco Polo sheep, Afghanistan’s national animal. Its severed head, with two-metre spiralling horns, was tied to the fork of a tree: a prize to be retrieved on the return journey. Taj carried it to the top of a jagged outcrop and cast it over the edge.
They camped that night beside a swirling confluence of rivers, running high with snowmelt. Taj had hoped the trail might veer west, towards the headwaters of the Siah. But no such luck. The poachers were following the Pashtu, heading straight for the gorge, and wolf pelts were worth big money in the markets of Kabul.
Next morning – disaster. Malik’s fall had been worse than they thought, his ankle swollen like a balloon overnight, and he could barely stand.
‘I can manage with a stick,’ he said.
‘You’d slow me down.’ Taj began packing his gear.
‘You can’t go on by yourself.’
‘Watch me.’ Taj shrugged on the rucksack and grabbed his rifle. ‘You head back and report what’s happened. Keep out of sight. They’ll return this way.’
Taj shunned the easy path along the river, reaching Wadi Gorge that afternoon well ahead of the poachers. He took up a sheltered position on a ridge to wait. Once he stopped moving, the cold seeped into his bones. Hours later, when a line of armed men appeared below, every part of him was numb. They picked their way along the stony riverbank. Too many to take single-handedly. Driving them off would have to do for now.
From his vantage point, Taj had a good view as they made camp. He couldn’t pick out faces, but a tall grey-bearded man seemed to be their leader. Hours ticked by, and at last the cold sun dipped behind the mountains. When it was almost dark and they were cooking meat in their fire, Taj made his move. Lying on his stomach, he aimed the rifle and shot the canteen from the hands of Grey-beard. He shot the pot hanging over the flames, spilling boiling water over the nearest two men. They screamed as he made mincemeat of their bundles of rolled-up skins.
Wild volleys of return fire rang around the cliffs, but in the failing light the frantic men could neither spot him, nor identify where the bullets came from. They were sitting ducks, and knew it. Taj’s next shots strafed their tents, and the men had had enough. They fled back along the river.
In the morning, Taj crept down to investigate the deserted camp. The poachers’ tracks in the damp earth showed the story of their panicked flight. With any luck, Malik and his men would be waiting when they tried to escape the forest. He threw their bundled skins and trophies into the dark, swift-running waters of the Pashtu, and set off up the gorge.
His electronic tracker revealed the wolves were close. So as not to alarm them, he cupped his hand to his mouth and howled, a long, double-toned note that swelled in volume and echoed off the ravine walls. The howl of a lost pack member. An answer came swiftly. Minutes later, a large, black wolf appeared on a ledge above him. Aakil. A second wolf appeared, and a third and a fourth.
With a bound they were upon him in a frenzy of greeting, nuzzling his mouth and rubbing themselves along his body. With a jaunty sweep of his tail, Aakil led him to the den, a roomy, well-concealed fissure in the cliff-face. Zahra was curled around six fat pups, two of them jet-black like their father. She was not pleased to see him, flattening her ears and baring her teeth.
‘I won’t bother them, mama bear.’ Taj backed off, his grin as wide as the mighty Pashtu. Proud as any father. His assortment of waifs and strays had grown into a tight-knit, functional pack. The cubs were proof of that.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, just as Aakil raised his hackles. What was that? He sensed an approaching threat. The pair stole from the den.
What a fool he’d been, reckless and overconfident. An armed poacher had followed them into the gorge. He and Aakil took cover behind a pile of boulders, as the man took aim. The crash of the rifle. Bullets smashed into the rocks around them, raising puffs of dust, but missing their mark. Taj aimed his own weapon, but the poacher was well protected too, ensconced behind a stony buttress. They exchanged pointless fire, both pinned to their positions: a stand-off.
Taj sensed the new danger too late. A second shooter. He whirled to see a rifle barrel clear the boulders behind him. In a flash Aakil had launched himself over the barrier, whacking the weapon aside as he went. The rounds intended for Taj slammed into the wolf. With an anguished cry, Taj scaled the boulders, firing again and again, until he was sure the poacher was dead. He turned to see the first man running from the gorge.
The bloodied bodies lay at the foot of the scree. Aakil and the poacher, side by side in death.
Taj knelt beside his fallen friend and bowed his head. One by one the wolves emerged from the den. Each in turn touched noses with Aakil. Last came Zahra. She lay beside him for a while, her head across his bloody neck. Then as one, the wolves tipped up their muzzles and sang their sadness to the sky. Taj joined in the melancholy cry. The pack couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Soon the other males would fight for the right to mate with Zahra, but for now they were united in grief.
At some invisible signal, the wolves melted away, leaving Taj alone. He would bury Aakil by the river, where he loved to play. Taj turned his attention to the dead man, lying face down in the dirt. With an effort he rolled him over and tugged the shemagh from his face. He blanched. Grey-beard. And he now recognised him.
Aakil must remain where he fell. Taj scrambled down to the Pashtu and lay face down, drinking his fill of its sweet, life-giving water. He took two handfuls of river sand and, returning to the scree, cast one over the dead wolf.
‘Goodbye, Aakil, my brother. Forgive me.’
Taj slipped the second handful into his pocket, and set off. He had to get back to the village before it was too late.