Auction Ch. 12A

With multiple stopovers the nightmare trip back home was finally over and I staggered into Pete's arms, delighted that he had found the time to meet me on arrival. I had not told him my flight number, so he must have done his research. More surprises were in store when I noticed Dianne's sister Jill standing with Helen near the luggage carousel. We exchanged hugs all round and made our way home.

I pressed them for information about Dianne but there had been no word from her at all. We worried about the possibilities and tried to formulate some sort of plan over a cup of coffee at Helen and Pete's place. Jill had cleaned up our place, removing all the dust covers from the furniture and buying enough fresh food for my immediate needs.

Desperate for sleep, I trudged down the street with my briefcase, pulled out my trusty laptop and fired it up to check the latest emails. There were several, but only one caught my eye -- it came from Dianne and was time stamped about two hours ago.

"My Dearest Steve

I have read all of your emails and I understand your feelings. In sending this message to you, I'm afraid I have blown my cover and I need your help right now, or Helmut will find a way to take me back to Germany. At the termination of my contract Helmut refused to allow me to leave. He beat me pretty badly but the two girls who live there helped me escape and put me on the plane home. I have been ultra careful to avoid using phones or internet services and have paid cash for everything I've needed. I've even covered up at petrol stations to avoid being recognized on CCTV. With his wealth, I'm sure Helmut will have the country's best IT people trawling Australian records until I pop up somewhere and then he'll pounce. Steve, I cannot let that happen. He is an evil, scheming perverted soul who can get away with his disgraceful behavior because of his wealth and influence. I have no doubt that by the time you read this, they will have traced the URL my email came from and are probably planning their next move at this very moment.

A kindly elderly gentleman who owns Outback Resort in the Kimberley in Western Australia has given me refuge. Officially I am a cleaner, working under an assumed name. He knows I have a problem but not the extent of it.

I have no right to ask it of you Steve, but I beg you to fly over here and take me back to Brisbane where I can be safe.

I know you don't believe me anymore, but I love you with all my heart. Please help me.

Dianne"

I re-read the email to make sure I was not imagining it. Did the German really have the power to track somebody down in this way? I replayed my conversation with him in my mind and reasoned that with his arrogant attitude, he possibly could. Now there were two reasons to get involved. First and foremost, I had to get Dianne back here. Whether the danger she saw was real or imagined, I simply could not abandon her. The second motivator was the kicker. Here was a chance for David to kick Goliath's arse, and I wasn't going to pass on THAT opportunity.

Suddenly I did not feel tired. Picking up the phone, I found the next flight to Darwin was leaving in about two hours. There was no connection to Kununurra in the West, but I could deal with that later. I ran back to Pete's place with a grab bag containing a few clothes and demanded that he drive me straight back to the airport, offering to explain on the way.

"You're fucking crazy Steve," was the best Pete could give me. "If this bastard is really as evil as you're painting him, he can rub you out and still take Dianne. He's got the money and resources and he won't even have to get his hands dirty."

I hadn't really considered my own safety but was forced to concede that Pete might be right. I would need to be quick and very, very careful.

The airline flight magazine was very helpful. It contained a full page of Darwin businesses which might help travelers in the region, including a charter airline which pictured a neat little twin engine Cessna in its ad. I pressed the call button and asked the flight attendant if she could forward book a plane from the company and have it ready to depart for Kununurra as our flight arrived. She took the challenge with a killer smile and returned from the cockpit a few minutes later with a triumphant grin.

"The pilot's name is Jim Atlas. He'll have the plane fueled and ready to go as soon as you leave us."

I took the opportunity to snooze for the final ninety minutes of the flight to Darwin. It was hot and steamy on the tarmac but true to his word, Jim Atlas greeted me as I entered the terminal, took my bag and herded me towards his waiting Cessna 335, a little twin engine aircraft, a plane with legendary reliability without frills.

"Kununurra is about 285 miles away," he informed me. "We'll cut that out in about an hour and a half."

He threw my bag inside, herded me into a comfortable seat, strapped me in, clapped a pair of headphones over my ears and fired up the motors. Within minutes he cleared with the control tower and we were airborne.

"You look a bit weary old son. Been travelling long?"

When I explained my last 48 hours to him, he suggested it might be prudent to try to sleep for a while and promised to wake me before starting our descent. I needed no rocking and woke up with my ears popping as the plane gently dropped altitude. It was approaching dawn and the early morning light accentuated the incredible reds in the country beneath us.

Touching down in Kununurra, Jim headed directly for the refueling bay to find a sleek Cessna Citation executive jet on the tarmac nearby.

"Nice plane," observed Jim. "Don't see many of those around here."

I stretched my legs while the plane refilled its tanks, leaving Jim chatting to the fuel attendant.

"The jet belongs to some German guy," Jim reported when we re-boarded. "He and his pilot just left in a hire car to go visit the Outback Resort, which he apparently wants to buy."

"We have to go, right now," I urged Jim. I know they have an all-weather strip there. Can you radio them and have someone collect us as soon as we land? We must get there before this German guy."

Jim looked askance. "You're not thinking of buying the place too, are you?" I know it well because Ioften drop tourists off there. If you're buying, allow a bit extra. The place is pretty run down and badly needs some TLC."

"No, Jim. It is more important than a sale. I don't believe the German wants to buy the place at all. I believe he's here to kidnap my wife. Now let's go!"

The resourceful bush pilot lodged his flight plan as he taxied to the runway and wasted no time in taking off. Twenty minutes later he confirmed that the control tower had phoned the resort and that the owner would be on standby for us. Ten minutes after that we touched down, drawing to a halt next to a battered, open top Land Rover. During the flight I took the opportunity to change out of my smelly clothes and donned my favorite work wear -- khaki cargo pants, a matching long sleeved shirt and lace up work boots that protect ankles against sharp spinifex grass.

A bearded gent in his sixties extended his hand, which I gratefully grasped and shook firmly.

"Bob," he introduced himself. "So you're the husband, eh?"

"Yeah, Bob. This is Jim and we don't have much time. Can we get going, please?"

The battered vehicle started up immediately and bounced happily along a rough track connecting the air strip to the resort. Bob jumped out with surprising agility for a guy of his age and gestured us to follow him to the reception area. The sun was already well up by now and the oppressive heat was building. The reception area, air conditioned and dark except for subdued lighting over the registration desk, gave us a welcome reprieve from the warmth outside. It was a simple area, tiled in red and brown hues reflecting local terrain with rough stucco walls featuring colorful aboriginal artwork.

Racks of aboriginal didgeridoos stood either side of the entrance, colorful sentinels standing like a guard of honor. To the far side, a hallway led to accommodation and dining areas.

"She hoped you would come," Bob started, "but she won't talk about what's bugging her. She won't let me pay her -- not even in cash, so I've put each week's pay in an envelope and stacked them in the safe. She is the best cleaner we've ever had in the place, so I'm not real happy to see her go, but then we always struggle to keep good staff."

While he was droning on, a cloud of dust in the distance heralded the approach of a car. It was travelling fast, way too fast for the conditions, and skidded to a halt inches from the fence protecting the resort's flower garden.

"Stupid bastard," muttered Bob, watching the driver emerge with a piece of paper in his hand.

The driver wore a pilot's uniform. His eyes were struggling to adjust to the low light but he stormed up to the desk waving his piece of paper (which turned out to be a photo of Dianne) in Bob's face.

"Have you seen this wo..." he started but stopped short when Dianne stepped into reception from the hallway.

He dropped the photograph, rushed over to Dianne before any of us could move and tried to drag her to the door by her shirt sleeve. I must say that I was enormously impressed by my wife in the moments that followed. She grabbed the guy's arm, pulling it free and wrenching it violently behind his back.

"Get your filthy hands off me," she yelled at him, lifting the arm so viciously that I thought it might dislocate at the shoulder. The German screamed in pain.

Hearing the scream, the passenger emerged from the car, brandishing a large revolver. It was no surprise that the gunman was Helmut himself, ready to claim Dianne in person. He ran down the pathway at full tilt and barged into the darkened reception area.

I reacted instinctively, drawing one of the digeridoos from the rack. As Helmut entered, I swung it low and hard. There was a satisfying crunch as his lower leg broke, sending him face first onto the floor. The revolver slid from his grasp, coming to rest on the far side of the room. I'm not really proud of what I did next, but it still ranks as one of the most satisfying moments of my entire life. Helmut, face down with a broken leg and legs spread, was too inviting a target to ignore so I aimed a full-blooded kick into his groin. There was a squelching noise as my steel capped boot drove home and Helmut briefly raised his head before passing out.

"Better ring triple zero, Bob. (For non-Australians this is the equivalent of 911 in the States.) I reckon he might need some treatment. The police might also be interested in a foreign national barging in here with an illegal firearm. He'll deny it of course, but he was here to kidnap Dianne and drag her back to Germany."

Dianne finally released the pilot and ran to me for a hug.

Turning away from her, I asked Jim if he could take us straight back and leaving Bob to tidy up our mess with the help of his staff who seemed to have come from nowhere on hearing the commotion.

"Can we get straight through to Darwin from here?" I asked.

"Afraid not. We'll need to top up in Kununurra." Then sensing the reason for my concern, he added: "But you two can stay on board the aircraft and I won't need to go to the terminal. By the time they realise we're not stopping there, we'll be airborne again."

I quickly clambered into the co-pilot's seat, leaving Dianne with no choice but to sit in the passenger compartment. She wasn't happy about it but said nothing. At Kununurra, all went according to plan, but when we taxied to the plane's hangar in Darwin, a police car and two coppers were waiting for us.

The coppers were very accommodating in the circumstances, I thought, half expecting them to slap a pair of cuffs on me and drag me to the lockup.

"Our guys in Kununurra phoned to say you were a hero down at the Outback Resort, disarming a crazy gunman."

I sheepishly contemplated my navel as the cop enthusiastically continued. "You know that you broke the guys leg -- both bones by the way -- but you might not know that he fell very awkwardly on the digeridoo that broke his leg and smashed his bloody genitals to a pulp. Must be pretty serious, because they had to get the Flying Doctor to take him to hospital in Perth, where they have the facilities to treat him."

What about witnesses, I thought. Bob would have seen exactly what happened and so would the German pilot. When I thought about it though, I realized that the pilot's face was still mashed against the wall by Dianne, with his arm twisted painfully behind his back. He wouldn't have seen a thing. Bob must have concocted the story when help arrived.

With a sigh of relief, I accepted their compliments, assured them that both Dianne and I were fine, and called for a cab to take us to a hotel to get some sleep. Dianne objected when I tried to order two rooms and I was too tired to fight so we took the desk clerk's offer of a nice double room. After showering briefly to rid myself of three days of grime, stench and red dust, I collapsed on the bed, where I slept for more than twelve hours.

Seated on a comfortable padded chair in a corner of the room, Diane watched me slowly emerge from my slumber.

"Ready for some breakfast?"

I looked around the room, realizing that I had a choice of the clothes I wore from Venezuela or the dusty khakis I wore yesterday. Reasoning that yesterday's clothes probably smelled less, I opted for the latter and asked Dianne to order breakfast in our room. I planned to buy some fresh clothes after eating.

I remained silent, unwilling to start an argument. I still felt exhausted. Every time I looked at this beautiful woman all I could see was the shimmering ball gown she wore in Texas and the way she fawned over her German lover.

"You ready to talk about it?" she ventured cautiously.

"There's not much to talk about. You're safe. That is important to me. We had a lot of good times. You made some choices that you knew full well I would never accept and made that worse with your disrespect in Houston. There is really no way back after that. You can't come close to imagining the hurt and humiliation that followed me everywhere I went when my colleagues realized that my wife was openly sleeping with another man. It somehow diminished my masculinity, but I wouldn't expect you to understand that."

"You know I really tried to talk to you before I left for Germany. Helmut was insisting on an answer in 24 hours and so I had way of getting your approval. The money was so good, Steve. It has set us up now to do whatever we choose with our lives. I did this for us Steve. Please try to understand."

She was wringing her hands in her lap, fighting back tears. I stood, found my wallet and walked from the room to find a clothing store, leaving my wife behind. She made no move to follow.

I bought a new shirt, a pair of chinos and some sneakers, wearing them out of the store, throwing my khakis in a shopping bag, weighed down by my work boots. Next stop: a bar.

By mid-afternoon, I had consumed a healthy McDonald's burger and far more Johnnie Walker than was good for me. Feeling no pain, I returned to my hotel room. Dianne had changed into a light summer dress and fixed her makeup. She was back in the same chair, hands demurely in her lap, waiting for me to say something. I tried not to disappoint her.

"I'm ready to talk now," I slurred. It was the last thing I remembered as I pitched forward and collapsed on the bed.

My head hurt, I needed to pee very badly and the room was spinning. It was daylight. I staggered off the bed, noting that I was stark naked but with no clue about how or when I lost my new clothes.

"I'll get you a coffee," Dianne offered. "I don't think you're ready for anything else. Go and have a shower. You stink of booze."

After a shower and a coffee I felt almost human again, despite the hammer incessantly tapping my brain.

"Steve," Dianne began quietly. "There has to be a way for us to get past this. We own our home. You have a tidy nest egg after your time in Venezuela and I have several million stashed away. All of the pressures that put us in this position in the first place are off. We can settle down and start a family. Isn't that what we set out to do when all this started?"

"You still don't get it do you, Dianne," I replied sadly. "You went ahead with this crazy scheme to fuck Muller when you knew full well that I would never go along with it. You cheapened our relationship by leaving your wedding rings behind when you left the country and then shat all over it by wearing what looked suspiciously like Muller's engagement ring. To make matters worse, your dalliance with him was splattered all over the media. Have you seen the story in last month's New Inspiration magazine? They practically had you married off. How do you think that made me feel?"

I was on a roll.

"If we stay together, I would worry that you might not be home when I returned, every time I went away. You say you did this for the money, but be honest Dianne, would you have taken on the contract if you didn't enjoy the sex with him? This was no auction Dianne. This time you entered into a contract to sell your body for sex. It doesn't matter how you try to dress it up, that's prostitution. To add to the insult you managed to throw in a bit of humiliation for me. I hope you enjoyed that, because it hurt almost as much as your betrayal. No, there is no way back. Take the house -- it was paid for by your tainted money and I don't want it. You have more than enough of your own to live comfortably. You're young, beautiful and smart, so I have no doubt that there will be a horde of gold diggers sniffing around you as soon as it becomes clear that you're on the market."

My self-righteous rant was taking its toll. I looked at this beautiful woman who was the centre of my life for so long, silently weeping during my onslaught. My love for Dianne that knew no bounds, or so I thought, yet we had arrived at a point where we had not only reached the boundary, we leaped way beyond it. There was no way back. I knew it. Dianne knew it. We came together and wept openly.

"Make love to me Steve. One last time, please, hold me and make love to me just this once."

We helped each other to get naked and slipped into the big, comfortable bed, holding each other tightly. I kissed her lips, her nose, her eyes and her ears reveling in her mewling responses. We lay quietly, kissing, touching and exploring each other without a word. Rediscovering each other's bodies.

When she guided me in, it felt like going home. Soft, welcoming, reassuring, loving. I twisted around slightly to feast on her nipples, knowing how she loves to have them sucked hard. The dance of love lasted and lasted and lasted until we both climaxed, and locked in a soft embrace, we slept.

I was torn and teary. I loved this woman, of that there was no doubt. Did she love me? I thought so, once, but how could a person who loves someone step out of their relationship and so blatantly into the arms of another?

A deep, melancholy mood enveloped both of us when we awoke and dressed in preparation for the flight home. We said nothing. Dianne clung to me like a limpet, holding my hand for reassurance every step of the way. On the aircraft she leaned into me, letting her head rest on my shoulder until she was forced to sit up straight when our descent began. We shared a cab to our house.

This was the moment of truth.

I stepped out and opened the door, helping Dianne out and passing her small suitcase over. Turning away with tears in my eyes, I quickly slipped into the seat alongside the taxi driver and wound down the window.

"Go now Dianne," I mumbled. "Let's try to make this a clean break. This is your home, not mine. I'll start proceedings and be in touch."