Page 42 of Stockman's Stormcloud

Wearing his oxygen mask, Dex hit the old padlock with the grinder, setting off a cascade of orange sparks to surround his oxygen tank. So what if it wasn’t exactly safe, but they couldn’t find the bolt cutters, and the noise drowned out Porter’s protests about health and safety. Didn’t that make him feel like his old self again, back on the tools, ignoring the copper, while breaking into a storeroom hidden behind the old hay baler.

He had to do something. It was embarrassing enough that Porter had to drive them to the sheds in the police car—all of fifty metres—because Dex struggled to walk the distance. Of course, Dex blamed the oxygen cart for that.

The grinder cut through the heavy metal padlock until it clanged as it bounced on the concrete floor.

Dex dropped the tool onto the bench and gripped the cold steel edge, as his lungs went into a spasm.Breathe, brother.

‘Are you okay, Dex?’ Porter patted Dex’s shoulder.

‘Yeah, gimme a sec.’ Slowly, he inhaled, just like Sophie had suggested, into the stomach, skipping the need to expand the lungs, and slowly exhaled.

Thankfully, Sophie’s breathing techniques helped stop that painful squeeze. He could just picture her little nod of approval. Although, he doubted Nurse Kitty would approve of him playing with the tools like this.

Well, when the cat was away, Dex was gonna play.

Surprisingly, the old handle turned and the door opened with ease, with no creaky sounds of age like the time he’dhelped Cap reopen the back storeroom to become Mia’s arts and crafts room.

‘Let’s see if we have lights?’ Inside, Dex felt down the wall and found a light panel. He clicked the switch, but nothing worked in the large dark room that smelled musty with old, mouldy hay and thick layers of dust.

A faint humming came from the old wiring, indicating the lights in the ceiling should be working. ‘The bulbs must have blown.’

‘When was this room used last?’ Porter pulled his large torch from his fancy police belt and lit up the large rectangular room. It held no furniture, just a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, with a few old hay bales dumped to one side, but it was steamy inside.

‘I’ve never used it.’ Charlie poked up the brim of his stockman’s hat. ‘Darcie’s old man locked it up after the murder. The Aboriginal stockmen refused to come anywhere near the area—that’s why they built the new stables further out. And well, mate, a man was murdered in here. As Bree would say, it’s got bad juju.’

Inside the large rectangular room, it was warm enough for Dex’s skin to break out in sweat. At the far end stood a wall of louvres, partially hidden behind a rotten tarp that Dex struggled to pull down. Where was his strength? And that light-headed nonsense had him seeing stars.Breathe, brother. Breathe.

‘Let me get that.’ With one effortless tug, Porter pulled the old tarp down, bathing the entire room in bright light and floating dust particles. He then pushed open the windows, allowing the cool breeze to flow through.

‘Careful, Porter, you’ll get that uniform dirty.’ Dex even chuckled, but then winced from the irritating rib. He just couldn’t heal quick enough.

Porter brushed down the dirt off his police shirt. ‘Ever since the boss went for a roll in the mud with his now-wife, I keep a spare uniform in the car.’ He again pulled out the torch from his police belt and shone it at the room. ‘There’snothing in here.’

There was a lot of space in the room, that’s for sure. But the size didn’t seem quite right. ‘What was this room used for, Charlie?’

‘It was the old tack room. This shed used to be the stables.’

Porter opened his fancy police file, angling his head at the hand-drawn diagram. ‘According to the notes, the guy died in the middle of the room. Shot in the back. The report claims the shot came through the window.’

‘Shot with what?’

Porter looked over the report. ‘They believe it was a twelve-gauge shotgun. But no weapon was recovered.’

‘The twelve-gauge is common for this area. You know, me and Bree—’

Dex knocked his oxygen bottle over. It clanged heavily on the concrete, tugging on the thin tube that connected to his mask. But it stopped the old man from opening his trap about Bree and her shotguns.

Bree’s shotties were stashed everywhere. No one knew how many there were or if they were registered, because Bree never talked about them. But to protect the redhead, Dex even bent over to place his hands on his knees to try to breathe.

‘We shouldn’t have you in here, mate.’ Charlie was at his side, while Porter picked up the oxygen canister.

‘You alright, mate?’

‘The trolley sucks.’

‘I’ll get Bree to whip you up somethin’ in a jiffy.’

‘I could build one myself.’ Dex didn’t want to bother, now determined to get rid of those damned oxygen canisters as quickly as possible. ‘So, what do you need us to do?’

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