Chapter 33

The phone rang just prior to lunch. I picked it up.

"Hollister."

"Gordy, this is Evans. I know it's Saturday, but I've got a problem, and it's not even local. It's in Queensland."

"Okay. Tell me."

"Some hikers near Caboolture, in Bullock Creek Conservation Park, found a dead body. They reported it and the body was taken to be examined. There was no ID and the local thought it might be an illegal, so we got called in. The report I was faxed says that heart and lungs appear normal and there's no sign of violence. They thought it might be an insect bite. So I'm calling you."

"Right. From what you said the medic did a good job. He just didn't know what to look for. Tick bite. Tell him to look on the ankles where the hair begins, behind the chap's ears and just within the hairline. They'll be a small whitish swelling about the size of a match head."

"Got it. That was fast."

"I was brought up around cattle. Ticks can be dangerous. This poor bastard probably lay down on the grass. The tick sensed the warmth and took advantage. The bloke felt tired and weak and then he was dead. Let me know. And, by the way, ticks aren't insects. They're more like spiders. There aren't really any poisonous insects in Australia, just a few annoying ants."

"Thanks. I really appreciate this."

I got off and told Weena about it over lunch.

The Australian paralysis tick (Ixodes holocyus) is widely distributed in south eastern coastal temperate regions of Australia. It secretes a neurotoxin in its saliva that causes a progressive, and occasionally fatal, paralysis. Sometimes a severe hypersensitivity reaction may occur. Often the tick goes unnoticed until weakness or ataxia develop, and then is found during an ensuing search.

"He's got something in mind."

"Don't generate fantasies."

The phone rang again.

"Hi, daddy. No, we just finished lunch. Of course you can come this afternoon. The way you drive, you'll be here by four. Oh, she won't let you? Then you'll be here by five. Okay. We'll have catfish for dinner. See you later."

"Well?"

"He went fishing this morning a caught four catfish – Mary say's they're cobblers. He's filletted them and Mary's put them in an ice chest. They'll be leaving soon, but Mary doesn't let him drive fast. Can you imagine? My daddy not driving fast. I used to think we went driving so he could hear me scream."

"Cobblers are tandanus bostocki -- they're catfish that run up to half a metre in length. They're probably as good to eat as any other cat."

"Do you bread them?"

"I'd use seasoned maize flour or cornmeal. Do we have enough cooking oil?"

"Yes."

"Great. Can I get in an hour's reading?"

"Men!"

I did read for a bit. I had barely 50 more pages left of Seven Types of Ambiguity. It was certainly strange, but it gripped me sufficiently that I was determined to finish. Maybe then I'd go to another old Upfield. Perhaps the one about the nutter trapping people in caves in the desert. Or one of those that take place in Queensland. Or Swordfish Reef. There were a lot that I liked. I went to look for my big cast iron fry pan. It was about 15 inches in diameter. The fillets couldn't be more than half or two-thirds of that. I found it right away and gave it a good swipe with a rag, then put it on the stovetop and went back outside.

"Potatoes?" asked Weena.

"Sure."

"And salad?"

"Whatever your heart desires, love."

"What did you do?"

"What?"

"You did something you think I won't like, that's why you're buttering me up!"

"Nothing of the sort. I told you you're the queen of my heart. Should I beat you up?"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Nor would I want to. What time is it?"