Anyway, back to that day. Pamela pressed her hand to my chest, voice soft and drippin poison, beggin me not to take him anywhere. Said if everythin came out, she was screwed. Said I was screwed. Said all sorts of things meant to confuse me, and maybe some of them did.
Then she shoved a velvet pouch into my hands. Said it was full of priceless jewelry. I didn’t believe her. But fuck me. She was right. Gold chains. Emeralds. Sapphires. Diamonds as big as dog teeth. Looked like sweets for rich folk. Worth more than my entire top paddock that her rich prick husband had pulled out of buyin.
I asked where the hell it came from. She told me I didn’t want to know. I damn well did. But that’s when things got weird. She told me that if I helped her, I could keep the jewels.
I aint stupid. I knew she was lyin through those pearly teeth. But she had real fear in her eyes. Real enough, she kissed me, shoved the pouch deeper in my hand, and whispered, “Frank…please.”
So I did what she wanted.
We watched the pilot’s breathing slow down until he didn’t breathe no more. Then I took her back to the ranch to clean herself up. After that, I went back to the wreck. I found a suitcase in the back she musta forgotten about. Probably still there. I never thought about it til now.
Anyway, I dumped Dan or Dave, or whatever the hell his name was, in one of them caves up on Golden Ridge. Propped him against the wall with the jewel pouch. Figured I’d come back when things cooled down.
But they never cooled.
Pamela was gone by the time I returned. Flew outta Australia the next damn day with Mister Moneybags in tow. I knew right then I’d been played.
Cops came sniffin around later askin about stolen jewels. Bob Ackerman had my back though. He knew I wasn’t dumb enough to nick diamonds from some fancy American. Heard later, Pamela claimed the loss on her insurance. So, she got her money anyway.
I didn’t.
I tried to go back to that cave once, but the flood of ’92 took out the path. Truth is, I didn’t want the jewels anyway. Too many strings attached. Too much of her stink on ’em.
Didn’t think about them jewels til I started writin my life story for you lot.
If I’ve got one regret, it’s not the blood on my hands. It sure as shit aint Pamela.
It’s not havin anyone to tell my stories to. Someone who understood me.
It feels damn good to finally tell someone all this stuff. All my fuckin wives told me to keep this shit to myself, said it’d corrupt you.
Like you lot were pure or somethin. Bullshit.
Funny thing about diamonds is they don’t rot. If you find ’em and got the balls to sell ’em, they’re yours. Might be the only inheritance you get from me.
Anyway. Thats it.
Frank Branson
Chapter 6
Charlie
* * *
With one eye searching for the brown snake, I sprinted across the pit, each step sending up clouds of dust and ancient bones. Where the hell had it gone? Was it still behind me? Watching me?
Don't look back. Don't look back.
I launched for the ladder, grabbed the first rung and the ladder rocked under my weight as I climbed, breathing in ragged gasps.
Where did it go?
Was it following me?
I didn't stop to check.
Sediment rained from above as the ladder ropes scraped the wall, knocking loose chunks of dirt from the edge. The whole pit seemed to sway, the same way it had when it had collapsed earlier. My legs burned. My lungs begged for air.