They merely nodded to acknowledge him. “Good day, Mr. Purdue,” their representative reciprocated the pleasantries. With the familiar looking woman was an older man of color, but Purdue could not place his ethnicity. It was a strange occurrence, if it was indeed Maria, to be in the company of a man like this. The Italian villainess Purdue got to know was the archetypal Nazi drone, and would never deign to keep company with a man of color. For a moment, Purdue thought of just coming out and asking the man of which nationality he was.
“So, you are the genius inventor?” the man suddenly said to Purdue, snapping him right out of his inner tug-of-war of propriety. “You are the explorer who rips the holy relics of cultures from the wombs of their graves for money? What did you invent this time to make you more money for your next pillage, Mr. Purdue?” With that accent, the man’s mysterious ethnicity was undeniable.
“Ah, you’re Aboriginal!” Purdue exclaimed without thinking. The other people in the room gawked at his response in silent horror. However, if their brainwashed morals felt the need to be offended on his behalf, the man did not share it. He responded to Purdue’s utterance by sarcastically acting out mock surprise. “A genius, hey, McKenzie?”
Ben McKenzie, the opposing counsel who was the only one cordial enough to greet Purdue earlier, rose and buttoned his blazer. He addressed Purdue, who had just sat down with Robert Knox next to him, and retrieved some documents from his narrow messenger case. At the same time, he introduced his two clearly hostile clients. “Mr. Purdue, this is Miss Louisa Palumbo, Department of Nature Conservation in Adelaide,” he gestured to the stern woman. “And this is Mr. Eddie Olden, from the Wilderness Society.”
Before Purdue, the lawyer set down two small silver containers, along with a dossier marked ‘Scorpio Majorus — lawsuit’. “The depositions are in there, along with the laboratory results from two different institutions from Brisbane and Perth.”
Scorpio Majorus was an affiliate company of Purdue’s main holdings, of which he was the CEO. The company comprised of a chain of medical facilities and forensic laboratories, as well as three drug production companies, mainly for research purposes and testing of new drugs for terminal diseases.
Knox immediately grabbed the file to check the papers filed while Purdue scrutinized the little boxes. From his expertise, he recognized them as biological samples. It was concerning, but he was not easily shaken by threats of lawsuits.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “What are these samples of and what is the nature of your complaint?”
“Mr. Purdue, let me do the talking, please,” Robert Knox requested in a professional tone, while his eyes scurried across the pages’ fine print.
“With respect, Robert, how much do you know about chemistry and biology?” Purdue asked. “Let me talk to the people myself. They are sitting right in front of me, and they are obviously upset about something chemical, otherwise I would not be handed samples, would I?”
With his own brand of firm conduct, Purdue regarded the complainants with no apprehension. He was tired of being nice, or maybe it was the appearance of the woman that automatically made him sour, but he was done being patronized. Purdue waited, switching his attention between Palumbo and Olden to assert his own intimidation. He was, after all, a very wealthy and influential man. Purdue’s status was of such a level that people like them should have felt privileged to address him directly. And he knew it.
Stammering, suddenly a bit less condescending, Eddie Olden shifted in his chair. One glance to his lawyer gave him the green light to speak freely about his complaint. “We have discovered a scourge among the wildlife in our area, Mr. Purdue. Livestock and natural predators alike are dying from poisoning, as per our biological submissions to you,” he presented, pointing to the sample boxes. “The poison was analyzed and found to be a product of Scorpio Majorus, called ‘Pancreo D’. It is apparently a chemical compound used in current experimentation for pancreatic-based testing.”
“That is correct, but it is not an isolated product… and it is not for sale. My companies use it as an ingredient only,” Purdue explained.
“Well, have a look at the documentation, Mr. Purdue,” Louisa suggested calmly. “Your company is behind a spate of illegal scrapping enterprises in Australia.”
8 Abandoned
Cecil Harding was done with examining the dead sheep of Cockran Farm, although he, and Nigel Cockran, were left confused about the results.
“Just you call on us if you need, Cecil,” Sally smiled, and shoved a lunch box with pie into the veterinarian’s hands.
“Thank you, Sally,” he grinned. “You do know this pie is not going to last the road up to my dad’s gate, right?”
“That’s what I hope,” she said. “It is not there to look at, you know.”
“Come, the day is getting late, son!” Nigel Cockran howled from his truck. He had promised to accompany the stranger to the locked gate that prevented him from meeting his father and brother the day before. “I still have to get the sheep up to the ridge before midday!”
“Alright! Thanks Sally!” the vet cried as he jogged to his rental car.
The two cars left a trail of dust so prominent that they disappeared inside it. Cecil panted from the gaining heat and it was not even summer yet. Arid and desolate, the landscape swallowed the two vehicles up under a scorching sun in the deep blue sky. When they arrived at the gates of Nekenhalle, they pulled their vehicles out of the road, onto a small slant of black sand and gravel rocks.
Outside, it was deathly quiet, save for the cicadas’ shrill announcements that the day would not be getting cooler anytime soon. The two men found the gate still padlocked tight with a chain.
“It’s not too high, but that bloody barbed wire is going to eat at our hands,” Nigel remarked. “Do you have protective gloves there in your car?”
“Nope, it’s a rental. I was only going to use hardware once I started helping my dad and my brother,” Cecil explained, while the old man was rummaging through the space behind his truck’s seat. Muffled, his voice sounded, “Never mind! Got you a pair!”
“Thanks,” Cecil smiled, pulling on the small-sized gloves. They were obviously the timid old farmer’s, so his hands could not fit comfortably, but he was not about to insult the old man with a refusal. The gate was very old, yet remarkably sturdy.
“You go first, Cecil,” the old man said. “I am not young anymore. I’ll hold us up.”
“Are you sure?” Cecil asked, about to scale the tall rusty iron. When he looked at Nigel, he could have sworn that he saw a glimpse of fear in the farmer’s face. He was not looking at the gate at all, but rather cast his eyes to the distance, up to where the turret of the house peeked over the trees and brush. “What’s the matter?” Cecil asked.
“What makes you think something is wrong?” the old man asked abruptly, pretending to fix his gloves. “Go on. I cannot waste too much time babysitting you.”
It was strange that the farmer was suddenly so terse, and Cecil could tell that he was very reluctant to cross the threshold of the entrance. “Listen, Nigel,” he finally said, “thank you for everything, but I am sure I can manage by myself from here on.”
At first, the farmer tried to keep up appearances. “No, no, I said I would come out here with you.” The look on Cecil’s face spoke volumes. “You know I am talking shit, don’t you?”
“I do. Look, Nigel, I don’t know what you have against this place, but it is obvious that you are not going to tell me. Just,” he hesitated, “just, if anything dangerous is here and something could have happened to my dad and my brother, Nigel, I need you to tell me.”