Crow hesitated. In this arena, as with the rodeo bulls, he was clearly outmatched.
“Just test it, Marvin,” he said dismissively. “It might be something.”
Marvin switched off his flashlight.
“You’re an embarrassment, Crow,” he said from somewhere in the dark. “Always have been.”
Hell, thought Crow as he walked up the path to his front door, with his family history it was impossible not to be.
CHAPTER 11
Crow found Wallace standing in wet, grubby socks in the middle of the kitchen at the rear of the house. He had removed his muddy shoes and jacket at the back door before slipping quietly inside. All the lights were off except for the perpetual glow of the microwave’s digital clock and its electric blue hue turned his flesh to a zombified gray.
With his sodden clothes and drowned-rat hair, Wallace further resembled the living dead from a B-Grade horror movie. If Delilah had heard him enter and went to investigate, she would have screamed at the top of her lungs.
How the hell would Crow have explained that to Marvin?
“Why did you tell Marvin we spoke?” asked Wallace.
Crow parried his friend’s suspicious tone with an easy grin. He hadn’t known Wallace was listening to their conversation.
“He’d know I was lying if I hadn’t,” said Crow. “Then he would hang around to try and catch me meeting up with you. This way, he knows I warned you and you’re gone. I’d have to be a fool to meet up again.” Crow grinned wider. “Marvin knows I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t that dumb.”
Wallace attempted to return the smile, but the muscles around his mouth were unable to co-operate. He shifted from foot to foot like an old boxer who’s suffered one too many blows.
“When do we move out?” he asked.
“I’ll make some calls,” said Crow. “You grab a shower, I’ll find some fresh clothes and we’re gone. Sound good?”
Wallace nodded and padded his way out of the kitchen and down the hall. He left wet footprints in his wake, the arches flat, carrying a heavy load.
THE SHOWER brought new life. Wallace felt its warm spray easing the sore muscles in his back, the deep bruises on his legs and hips, and the cuts, chinks and scrapes that pebbled nearly every inch of his flesh.
The crash had rattled his bones more than he realized, but he knew it could have been much worse. The passenger side of the van was crushed. If Alicia had been with him, or the boys . . . .
He pushed away the blackness, allowing the steam to seep into his mind and shift the muddled clouds that were interfering with his brain, slowing him down, making him unable to think. Despair was a slug that curled inside your head, growing fat upon worry and regret. But Wallace knew he had to keep it at bay. His life, and the lives of his family, was forfeit if he allowed it to feed.
As he shampooed his hair, picking out chunks of dried mud and broken twigs, he heard the bathroom door open and, a short moment later, close again. He rinsed, shut off the water and pulled back the vinyl curtain.
A fluffy towel lay atop a pile of fresh clothes folded neatly on top of the toilet lid.
Wallace dried himself and dressed. Crow’s clothes were a close match. The pant legs were two inches too short, but they fit in the waist and were comfortable. The T-shirt was short-sleeved and loose just the way he liked it, and the fresh socks were warm and perfect.
He returned to the kitchen, but stopped short when, instead of Crow, Delilah stood in a fluffy housecoat and fur-lined sheepskin moccasins, frying a pan of bacon on the stove.
Delilah turned when she heard him and her face radiated everything that Wallace was trying so desperately to keep bottled up deep inside.
She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him so tight he could hardly breathe.
“Crow told me about Alicia and the boys,” she said. “Who would do something like this? Why?”
“I don’t know . . .” Wallace had to fight not to break down then and there. He wanted to drop to his knees, bury his face against her stomach and collapse into a blubbering mess. Instead, he gently pushed her away and wiped at his eyes. “. . . but I aim to find out.”
Delilah stepped back and looked up into Wallace’s face. His pain was etched too deep to be hidden. She studied his eyes for a moment, then gently patted his chest and returned to the stove.
“I’m making you boys breakfast to go,” she said. “You’ll need your strength.”
She turned to take in his clothes and nodded her approval.
“Crow’s feet are smaller than yours,” she said. “Your shoes are in the sink. I washed all the gunk out of them and stuffed them with newspaper, but they won’t have time to dry.” She pointed to a deep drawer beside the fridge. “Take two grocery bags, slip one over each foot before you put on your shoes. That’ll work for now.”
“Thanks.” Wallace made another attempt at a smile. It was weak, but it softened his face just enough. “I appreciate all you’re doing.”
Delilah’s eyes watered and her lower lip twitched as if she wanted to say something more.
“It’s okay,” said Wallace. “I may look it, but I’m not going to break.”
Her voice was quiet. “This may sound odd.” She hesitated. “But do you ever look at Alicia’s Facebook page?”
“Facebook?” Wallace was puzzled. “That thing on the computer?”
Delilah nodded. “It’s a social networking site. It’s how all us moms communicate now. You know? The kids are in school, who’s free for coffee? When? Where? Alicia and I love it. She posted about going to Bellingham. Then about finding a great deal on a new skirt at the mall. She even posted a photo of it.”
Wallace held up a hand to stop her. “How did she post something from the mall?”
“From her cellphone. Most of the new ones can connect directly to the ’Net. You can Tweet about where you are, what you’re doing, everything. Alicia was always doing it.”
Wallace shook his head. “Alicia didn’t take her cellphone. I was nervous about roaming charges.”
“But she must have,” said Delilah. “I saw the photo.”
“Can you show me?”
Delilah led the way out of the kitchen to a small alcove in one corner of the informal dining room that housed a compact all-in-one computer with a seventeen-inch screen. This was Delilah’s only private area in the house and it offered her no privacy at all.
Delilah wiggled the mouse to bring the monitor to life and then launched a web browser. Facebook was her default home page and she quickly logged in.
There were a dozen status updates from friends posted on the main page, but the one that instantly caught Wallace’s eye was Alicia’s.
Posted beside a small photo of her smiling face was her last update. It had been posted at 4:22 p.m. and it read:DfGDKqjk CvTrhG.
“What does that mean?” asked Wallace.
“I don’t know.”
“Why would she post gibberish?”
Delilah’s voice was strained as she fought back tears. “I don’t know. That’s what I wanted you to see.”
Wallace rubbed his brow in frustration. It made no sense. None.
“Show me the other posts,” he said.
Delilah clicked on Alicia’s photo and the screen switched to her personal profile.
Wallace was startled to see Alicia had over one hundred and fifty friends listed. How could she possibly know that many people? Not that Alicia ever had a shortage of friends. People were naturally drawn to her. She exuded joy. Just being around her made everything and everyone feel better. It was one of the reasons why he looked forward to coming home after a hard day. Just to see her face. Hear her voice. Secure in the knowledge that no matter what, everything was okay.
Without her, he would only ever be half a man.
And yet he hardly recognized any of the names and faces posting updates on her virtual wall. Had he been that out of touch?
If he had a Facebook page it wou
ld probably show Crow, maybe one or two other bus drivers and a couple of old friends from back in the day, but there would likely be no more than six people in total.
Underneath Alicia’s garbled message was her previous post. Delilah clicked on the photo’s icon to enlarge it.
The photo showed Alicia standing in front of a full-length mirror. She was holding a pleated skirt in front of herself with one hand, while taking the photo on her phone with the other. She looked happy, carefree and enjoying her shopping adventure.
Wallace studied the photograph carefully. There were no other shoppers in the frame and nothing to indicate the store was specific to the Bellis Fair Mall. It couldn’t be used to prove that Alicia and the boys had been with him in the U.S. when they disappeared.
Wallace looked at the time stamp on the update. It had been made less than twenty minutes before the garbled post.
He tried to think. He hadn’t known Alicia had brought her cellphone with her, which meant she likely kept it tucked out of sight inside her purse. He didn’t know why she thought she had to hide it from him. If taking it had meant that much, he wouldn’t have denied her. It was only money. And not that they had much of it, but compared to Alicia’s happiness, it truly meant nothing.
He thought about her being grabbed by a stranger. The stranger had no face for Wallace still couldn’t comprehend why this was happening or who was behind it. Alicia’s first instinct would be to cry for help, but if someone had the boys, if he threatened to harm their sons, Alicia would go quietly. She would die for those boys.
But she had her phone. She had just posted a message about the skirt. What if she reached into her purse and attempted to send another message? If she couldn’t see the letter keys, the text would be a garbled mess.
Wallace looked at the message again.
It was clear as day.
The message was for him.
Find us.
CHAPTER 12
Driving one-handed in the dark, Crow wiped breakfast crumbs off the front of his shirt and then unclipped a three-inch folding knife from his belt.
He handed the knife to Wallace.
“Not to criticize your fashion sense,” he said, “but maybe you could trim the ends of those bags. My cousins already think white men are strange. They don’t need any more encouragement.”
Wallace accepted the knife, unclipped his seatbelt and leaned down to trim the vibrant yellow plastic bags that stuck out from his wet shoes to flare around his ankles.
“It was a clever idea,” he said. “My feet are still dry.”
“Just don’t tell Delilah,” said Crow. “She’s always stuffing black garbage bags in my glovebox in case I have to change a tire in the rain. If you encourage her, she’ll have me trading my old hip waders for a pair of leaf bags.”
“Those waders do have a distinct stench to them,” said Wallace.
“Don’t you start,” said Crow. “It’s that hard-earned musk that makes the fish take the bait. You ever see me come home without a catch?” He answered his own question. “Never.”
Wallace finished trimming the plastic bags and handed back the knife. Crow clipped it to his belt.
The traffic light in front of them turned red, but Crow didn’t slow down. Traffic was non-existent as the sun had yet to rise. As he drove through the four-way intersection, Crow glanced in the rearview mirror and checked both side mirrors.
“No flashing lights,” he said casually. “That’s something.”
“You expecting Marvin and the Mounties?” Wallace asked.
“Marvin’s a keener,” said Crow. “Could be dangerous. Especially where we’re going.”
“Your cousins don’t get along?”
Crow smiled. “Two different paths. You haven’t met this cousin before. He’s a big believer in the old ways. In their day, the Squamish people had a purpose for everyone. Unlike the white men, the band didn’t try to mold and shape people into what they needed. Instead, tasks were given based on a person’s natural abilities. There were the chiefs, the elders, the warriors—”
“Bus drivers,” said Wallace.
Crow grinned wider, but continued with his story. “Some of these warriors, by today’s standards, would have been called psychopaths. There are tales passed down that still give children nightmares. Food was scarce in the winter and we were a warlike race, so there was a place for these men. They earned everyone’s respect.”
“And this cousin we’re going to see,” said Wallace. “He’s a respected man?”
“Very much so,” said Crow.
TWO MILES later, the main road came to an abrupt end at the base of the rugged North Shore Mountains. Behind them, the sprawling residential neighborhoods of North Vancouver reached all the way to the bustling maritime shores of Burrard Inlet. Ahead lay the dense forested slopes that formed the southernmost grouping of the vast Coast Mountains.
The road formed a T-junction, but instead of turning either left or right, Crow engaged the truck’s four-wheel drive and kept going straight.
The truck bounced and swayed as it descended into a steep ditch, climbed out the other side and crashed through a weedy copse of brush and small trees.
Wallace held onto the truck’s door handle to stop his head from smashing into the roof with every bone-jarring bump.
“You sure you know where you’re going?” he asked.
Crow shrugged. “My cousins change the route all the time to allow new foliage to grow, but this is the only path I know.”
“Must make mail delivery a bitch,” said Wallace.
Crow grinned. “We use smoke signals. Much easier.”
After the truck bounced through another small grouping of trees, the ground leveled out slightly into two shallow ruts that resembled the off-road trails enjoyed by recreational quad-bikes. Crow attempted to increase his speed, but the truck shuddered in protest.
“I thought your people were fishermen.” Wallace was gripping the door with both hands and his face had taken on a sickly green hue. Even if his body hadn’t already been tender, the ride would have been rough. “Flat land. Cool streams.”
“Hunters, too,” said Crow. His face was alight, enjoying every bump. “Whatever it takes to survive.”
The ruts followed the mountainous terrain and used a series of nausea-inducing switchbacks to climb to higher elevations. The truck’s headlights could only illuminate a short distance through the thick foliage and Wallace fought a sickening dread in the pit of his stomach that the trail would lead them right over the edge of a cliff.
Finally the ruts converged with a slightly wider, hard-packed mud road that led through a tunnel of pine, fir and cedar to an unexpected tubular-steel gate. The heavy gate looked solid enough to stop most vehicles smaller than a Leopard tank, and the heavy forest on either side made driving around it impossible.
“Slide over and take the wheel,” said Crow. “I’ll get the gate.”
“Stay there. I can get it.”
Wallace moved to open his door, but Crow grabbed his arm to stop him.
“You can’t,” he said. “Trust me.”
Crow opened his door and climbed out, while inside the cab, Wallace slid over into the driver’s seat. The sun was just beginning to rise, turning the sky an impressive shade of red. Crow walked to the gate, stopped and held up one hand at shoulder level. He waited silently.
Wallace attempted to peer through the gloom ahead to see what or who Crow was waiting for, but the trees were too thick and the light too dim. He couldn’t see a thing.
After several seconds, Crow lowered his hand and punched a combination into a keypad on the gate’s handle. It appeared to take some shoulder grease to lift the heavy bar out of the ground, but Crow soon had the gate pushed open wide enough to allow the truck access.
After Wallace drove through, Crow relocked the gate and returned to the truck. Wallace slid over to the passenger side as Crow climbed back inside.
“What were you waiting for out t
here?” asked Wallace. “I couldn’t see a thing.”
“Just making sure we were still welcome.”
“And how did you know?”
Crow shrugged. “They didn’t shoot me.”
THE TRUCK bounced into a small clearing and came to a stop in the middle of a rough circle surrounded by a series of raised wooden huts. It was too dark and too sheltered for Wallace to make out the size of each hut, but some appeared to be for living, while others seemed large enough to be used as warehouses.
Wallace went to open his door, but jumped back when a pair of glowing green eyes appeared at his window.
The owner of the eyes laughed loudly before removing a pair of night-vision goggles. He looked like a younger version of Crow. Same incredibly deep-set eyes, strong nose and sharp cheek bones that threatened to slice through a skin as smooth and supple as tanned leather. Unlike Crow, however, this younger version lacked the bulk to handle the weight of such features. His face had matured before his body caught up.
The young man was dressed in camouflage army fatigues and had a large, semi-automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Unlike a regulation soldier, however, his thick hair was pulled into a luxurious ponytail that reached to the middle of his back. A wide blood-red headband wrapped around his forehead completed the look.
Still laughing, the young man opened Wallace’s door.
“Should’ve seen your face, dude,” he said. “Priceless.”
He sounded about as Native as Keanu Reeves from the Bill & Ted movies.
Crow walked around the truck and slapped the younger man on the shoulder. He looked in at Wallace.
“This is my young cousin. Everyone calls him JoeJoe.”
“’Cause my first and last name is Joe,” said JoeJoe. “Lazy ass parents, what can I say?”
“Joe Joe?” said Wallace.
“You got it, dude.”
No Cry For Help Page 5