“Then they’ll get their chance another day. When we have backup.”
“We ought to have backup right now. If this wuss won’t help us I’ll find someone who will.”
I found Eva Marchand, standing with the skinny Marchand boy who’d fought with us at the airport.
“I’m sorry,” Eva said when I asked, “we’re not ready for a fight.”
“They’ll kill us,” I said. “Me and Sara.”
“We can take Sara with us…we can keep her safe.”
“And so they’ll just kill me.”
“You don’t have to cross back over the river,” Eva said. “You can stay here for now. The Walkers will keep you safe.”
“The Walkers should be fighting beside me. And you should be, too, Eva.”
“That’s the wrong choice. I won’t risk my family…sorry.”
“I won’t forget this.”
“You can be angry with me, Monsieur Baptiste…but let us take Sara. We can get her home safely.”
“Okay…”
But that wouldn’t be enough.
I needed help.
I would need to ask Dave Walker. At his youngest son’s funeral.
“Baptiste…”
I turned to see Ryan Stems and his little wife.
“We can help you,” he said. “I have two men at the bridge. That makes five of us.”
“Five?”
“I can shoot,” little Anna said.
“We won’t need to shoot,” Stems said. “We drive out together, with a truck from the Walkers…”
“The Walkers will help?” I ask.
“I’ll handle it. These guys won’t engage if we’re three on three.”
“That’s three on three plus mounted anti-aircraft guns. Not that equal.”
“Still…these guys are cowards.”
“You sound pretty sure…”
“I am. When you dropped in on them the other day ―”
“Why are you so well-versed in this?” I asked.
“When you dropped in on them, did they come after you?”
“No…”
“They knew you could put up a good fight. Once you took off, they said a little prayer and cleaned the shit off their thighs. They didn’t come after you.”
“You know an awful lot about this…”
“Sky told me what happened. I do have friends around here.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay…maybe not friends…”
“So your entire plan rests on a hunch that these assholes will turn tail the moment they see I’m not alone?”
Stems nodded.
He was cocky about it.
“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” I asked. “These guys told Matt they’re the Mushkegowuk Spirit Animals…friends of yours…”
“You’re smarter than that, Baptiste.”
“Explain it like I’m five.”
“They want us to distrust each other. We’ve had raids on our side of the North Driftwood, too. Except on our side they like to pretend that they’re from something called the Cochrane Protection Committee. Sound familiar?”
“Then who do you think they are?”
“I know who they are. Detour Lake.”
“How do you know?”
“Can we just get this done?”
I’d have to either accept his help or I’d have to bunk with the Walkers.
And since Katie was engaged, I’d probably end up canoodling with Livingston…
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“Alright…you’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“That’s right…maybe you should…”
“Fuck you, Stems.”
He laughed. “Close enough.”
Stems did get a truck from the Walkers, complete with two more men and their hunting rifles. I took the gravel truck in front, with Stems in the passenger seat and both of us wearing body armour; it certainly fit Stems better than it would Sara.
Behind us was Stems’ half-ton, with his two men and his bride, who ended up with a shotgun that was almost as big as she was; that being said, it was clear from the moment she’d taken it from one of Stems’ men that she knew how to use it.
I guess Stems has a thing for girls with guns. I’ll be sure to keep him away from Lisa.
The Marchands waited behind with their two Ford pickups and Sara; we all switched to the same unencrypted band, so once we were sure it was safe, Stems would be able to call Sara on his handheld and give the Marchands the all-clear.
I drove up the road slowly, as Stems scanned the distance with his binoculars.
“I see them,” he said as we neared the rail crossing. “Two trucks.”
“Only two?”
“I’m not sure if the other’s behind or off somewhere else.”
“Could be another bad maneuver,” I said. “At the airport they tried to sneak up behind us.”
“There’s no behind us, is there?”
“Not yet…once we cross the tracks…”
“The tracks will be the ‘behind us’.”
“Maybe…”
“So we stop?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
I put on the brakes.
We waited.
“No movement,” he said.
“I can see that.”
“Now what?”
“I’m in no hurry. Sometimes the key to victory is knowing when to sit back and wait.”
“I’m from the US Army,” Stems said. “We’re not so good at waiting.”
“Or nation building.”
“Or communication.”
“Or coming under budget.”
“Hah!” Stems said. “Sometimes I forget how much you and I hate each other.”
“I don’t forget.”
“Yeah…that’s not really your deal.”
“You’re still a criminal in my books.”
“I know.” He didn’t sound surprised. “They’re moving.”
“They’re coming?”
“Nope…they’re going. Still just the two…heading east.”
“Luring us?”
“I doubt it.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said.
I started moving forward, even more slowly than before.
“Step on it,” Stems said.
“Why?”
“I want to see how they react.”
“If they’re even watching.”
“They’re watching.”
I sped up, kicking up snow with the tires and making the engine roar.
“They’re off,” Stems said. “They’re pissing themselves.”
“No one is pissing themselves.”
“I am…a little…”
The Toyotas were speeding away, faster than you’d usually see on concession road in the middle of winter. They didn’t want us to catch up to them.
We reached the rail crossing.
I glanced to the left, and then to the right. “Nothing,” I said.
“So where’s lucky number three?”
It felt like the airport all over again. Two in front, a third hidden somewhere…
“Maybe I’m not the target,” I said.
“Who’s the target then?”
“They want us to give the all-clear. They want us to chase them toward Cochrane or Clute or something, and then the third truck will take its shot.”
“At the Walkers?”
“At the Marchands, maybe…or Sara…or both.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Baptiste. You’re the one who tried to kill them.”
“And they’re doing a piss poor job of trying to kill me back.”
“What?”
“Call Sara and tell them to stay put. Don’t mention anything else.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Clear channel.”
He pushed for Sara. “Sara and Marchands, this is Stems. Stay where you are. Repeat. Stay where you are.”
&
nbsp; There was no response.
“Sara and Marchands. Come in.”
Nothing.
“Shit,” Stems said. “Does she know how to work a handheld?”
“Something’s wrong. If she’s not responding…something’s happened.”
“Could be jamming.”
“But if they want us to give the all-clear…”
“They knew we wouldn’t. I said they were cowards…I didn’t say they were idiots.”
“So we turn back.”
“No, wait…I think I see them.”
“She couldn’t get through to us and so they decided to come looking for us?”
“I never said the Marchands weren’t idiots.”
I stopped the truck. “We’ll go together, I guess. I’ll ride with the Marchands.”
I hopped out.
The first of the Marchands trucks slowed to a stop; the second passed in front before slowing down a little further ahead.
Eva rolled down the passenger-side window. Sara was crammed up beside her.
“What’s going on?” Eva asked.
“I’m riding with you,” I said.
“There’s no room.”
“I’ll take the back.”
“But you’re the one they’re after.”
“We were chasing two trucks. We’re not sure where the third is. So I’m with you until we find it.”
She nodded.
I walked around to the back and climbed into the bed of the pickup.
The skinny kid was there, holding his hunting rifle with a serious look on his face.
“Together again,” I said.
He nodded.
I tapped on the cab and the truck started moving.
Stems took the lead, rushing ahead with his three trucks.
The other Ford pickup started up as well, falling in behind us.
We drove past the first concession road with no sign of the third Toyota. For all I knew there were three gray pickup trucks a ways in front of Stems, and I was just wasting our time. But I couldn’t think of a downside to a little extra caution.
A minute or two later we reached the junction with Highway 579. We couldn’t see the Toyotas.
To the right was Cochrane.
To the left was Clute and Silver Queen Lake.
Stems turned left.
We all followed.
As Stems passed a yardsite in the gravel truck I saw the truck swerve. He slammed on the brakes.
His second truck didn’t stop in time and rammed into the gravel truck.
His third drove into the ditch.
I was almost tossed over the cab as the pickup I was standing on lurched to a halt.
A gray Toyota pickup pulled onto the road, a man in armour and a helmet painted like an eagle standing in the back with the mounted.
He pointed it at Stems’ three trucks but didn’t fire.
A second Toyota came out behind. It turned onto the highway and drove toward us. I could see the helmet of its AA gunman, painted with leopard spots.
The Marchands slammed their two trucks into reverse. The boy and I did our best not to fall right out of the box
We sped backward to the junction. The second truck reversed onto the concession before switching back into drive and heading back onto the highway, to the west toward Cochrane.
I braced myself as our truck did the same.
I turned to the skinny boy beside me. “It’s up to us,” I said. “We need to hit the driver or the tires. Both difficult targets.”
He nodded. He wasn’t smiling like I’d remembered from before. I think he was starting to understand how quickly it could all go to suck.
I took out my SIG and knelt down by the tailgate, as close to the driver’s side as I could get.
“You need to stay lower,” I said. “Let them aim at me. No…move more to your left.”
He laid down on his stomach, probably in his best imitation of a sniper. He was in way over his head.
The gunman in the back of the Toyota opened fire.
His aim was not nearly as good as I’d expected it to be. Few of the rounds were even hitting the truck, and so far none had come close to my head.
I waited for the Toyota to come close enough, and then I started firing back.
From the back of a moving pickup, my aim wasn’t much better.
The skinny kid took a few shots as well, staying low as I’d told him.
I heard a loud blast from in front of us. Our truck pulled hard to the left and I lost my balance, slamming into the bed of the truck.
For a moment I thought we were about to roll, but the roll didn’t come and we landed upright in the ditch full of snow.
I looked for the second truck. It was on the ditch on the other side of the road, blown onto its side, the hood and at least half the cab on fire.
“Get everyone out of the truck,” I yelled. “Stay low in the ditch.”
I turned to the skinny kid. “Get into the snow. Take a shot every ten seconds or so. How much do you have left?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Two or three rounds.”
“Shit.”
I hopped out of the truck bed and landed in the snow, the skinny kid right behind me.
I had eight rounds. That’s not much against guys with as much body armour as you.
The Toyota stopped less than five meters from us.
The gunman opened fire on the truck.
I opened fire on the gunman.
There are still two weak spots on most sets of ergonomic body armour after years of so-called improvement: the delts and the kidneys. The delts are harder to hit, and less lethal if you do.
I aimed for the kidneys.
It took three rounds before I got one.
The gunman fell from his mount.
I charged at the truck.
The driver slammed it into reverse.
I took two shots just to keep them moving.
With the Toyota flying up toward Clute and Silver Queen Lake, I had the skinny kid stay in position with the two other gun-toting Marchands while Sara, Eva and I checked on the burning truck.
It looked like something out of my past.
The bomb had been crude and it had been dirty, either radio-activated or weight-triggered…I had no idea which. The five Marchands inside had been ripped open by thousands of pieces of shrapnel, probably screws and nails and any other scraps of metal you can find at Home Hardware.
They weren’t wearing helmets or armour. They hadn’t stood a chance.
It didn’t take long for Stems to show up. I didn’t do a headcount or anything, but it looked like they were all in one piece.
One of Stems’ men was once a medic out of Petawawa, and he looked over all five bodies, not that he could do anything about them.
Two of the surviving Marchand boys were throwing snow on the fire; I guess they needed to do something. The skinny kid remained on watch. Eva Marchand was still, staring into the flames like she was sitting in front of a campfire.
Sara took her by the hand and led her back to the other Ford pickup.
“Hit the gunner,” I told Stems. “What about you guys?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “When the explosion happened, they just turned and drove off.”
“You just let them go?”
“Hey…we came to help you.”
“Help me with what? Counting the bodies?”
“Screw you, Baptiste. This is all on you. Running around like you think you’re a goddamn one-man army…what did you think would happen?”
“Harsh criticism coming from a murderer who fucks little girls.”
I felt an arm grab at my elbow.
Sara pushed her way in between us. “What the hell is wrong with you two?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Have you already forgotten what happened here? Mon dieu. ”
“Talk to your boyfriend,” Stems told her. “Tell him to go home and leave this to the professionals.”
“I’d choose B
aptiste a thousand times over you,” she said. “I feel sorry for the people who’ve put their trust in you.”
“You’re just as delusional as he is. You two are beyond hope.”
Stems shook his head. He shoved the truck keys at Sara and walked back toward his own vehicle.
“That’s my body armour,” I said.
He started tearing it off, tossing each piece down into the snow.
Sara clasped my hand. “This wasn’t your fault,” she said.
I’m sure she was just trying to help.
Today is Monday, December 24th.
The one-man army took a day off today. I’ve done enough damage, I think.
Sara was insistent that we check on the Girards at least, if not the Marchands; I was equally insistent that we stop wasting fuel on ridiculous errands. After almost twenty minutes of bickering, some of which made both of us laugh, we compromised: we’d take the cart, only to the Girards and back, and Sara would wear the helmet and vest from the moment we crossed the Abitibi River.
I think she hates that armour more than the possibility of getting shot.
Last Christmas Eve Sara and I had taken the truck (the old truck that’s still sitting smashed-up at the airport) and gone to each family between us and the Walkers, dropping off little treats that Sara and Fiona had baked, along with some apple ice wine that I’ve never liked.
Fiona had even done up a funny little Christmas card for Sara to hand out, with a group photo and a modified quote from an old comedian: “Christmas at McCartney Lake is always at least six or seven times more pleasant than anywhere else. We start drinking early. And while everyone else is seeing only one Santa Claus, we'll be seeing six or seven.” That’s not what you’d expect from a Mormon girl, but Fiona’s always been a little different.
Last Christmas Eve we spent seven hours on it, visiting around two dozen families. This year we can’t risk going out and visiting the last few families we still know about.
There were around fifty families left after The Fires went out; that was down from probably three hundred when the shit first slammed into the proverbial fan. At least fifty more had taken Livingston up on his death march to Temiskaming, with just enough setbacks and delays to put them in the middle of the worst place to be, at the worst time, of course.
I’d told them not to go; I knew what would happen.
I should have done more.
When we came to the junction off Menard Lake Road, the Girards’ wood and metal gate was left open, with no one in sight.
After The Fires Went Out: Coyote atfwo-1 Page 24