No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  JoeJoe pointed at the large white monument glistening with dew in the middle of the groomed green lawn.

  “You’re already on the U.S. side,” he said. “Now you just need to stay here.”

  A lanky figure crossed in front of the monument and headed towards them at a leisurely pace. He was definitely native, a hardscrabble life etched deeply in the shadows and lines under his eyes, but his hair was cut short and he possessed a similar build to Wallace.

  “Two people walked down the hill to look at the park,” said JoeJoe. He waited until Wallace’s face registered confusion before continuing. “But nobody cares, dude.” He grinned. “So long as two people walk back.”

  JoeJoe nodded to the south where a public washroom was nestled in a stand of trees.

  “Go in there. Wait five minutes, then head east. Walk easy. Put that cheap-ass camera around your neck. There’s a parking lot for American tourists. Transportation will be waiting. Don’t panic. Don’t rush. And everything will be cool.”

  “That’s it?” asked Wallace.

  JoeJoe grinned. “This ain’t Mission Impossible, dude, and you’re not a truckload of weed. Why would anyone think a paleface like you needed to sneak across the border?”

  Wallace bumped JoeJoe’s extended fist with his own. “Tell Cheveyo I appreciate all he’s done.”

  JoeJoe’s grin faltered and he lowered his voice. “Between you and me, dude, I’d forget you ever heard that name. Cheveyo did a favor for Crow. Normally, he wouldn’t lift a finger for a white man.”

  Wallace nodded in understanding, then turned and headed for the washroom.

  WALLACE WAS inside less than a minute before the washroom door opened and the man he had seen walking past the monument entered. He had sad brown eyes and his cheeks and chin were pitted from a bad case of childhood acne. Combined with his height, the scarring gave him a threatening presence.

  Wallace gulped, suddenly wondering if something had gone wrong. What if Cheveyo had made a secret deal with whoever abducted his family to deliver Wallace in exchange for leaving Crow out of it?

  Wallace braced himself, preparing to fight, but the man simply nodded to him, washed his hands in the sink, and exited without a word.

  Three minutes later, Wallace followed.

  Outside, Wallace was surprised to see an attractive native woman leaning against a tree. She was young and lean with an angular face so perfectly proportioned it would have made Michelangelo itch to pick up a chisel. Her hair flowed past her shoulders and made him think of spilled ink, flashes of indigo glistening within the midnight strands.

  As soon as their eyes met, she flashed him a dazzling smile and rushed over. She wore a playful silk blouse above a smart pair of tight, riding-style pants and polished boots. Before he could react, the woman wrapped her arm in his, squeezed it against her body and stood on tiptoes to peck his cheek.

  Wallace tensed. The woman’s soft lips burned into his stubbled cheek with the heat of fresh embers. Her kiss felt like an invasion, a hammer against glass, the brief intimacy a betrayal of his missing wife. He struggled not to recoil, knowing this stranger couldn’t possibly understand how fragile a simple kiss made him feel.

  “Relax,” she said. “It looks better as a couple. Not so obvious.”

  She steered him, arm in arm, along a landscaped white gravel path toward the parking lot on the Washington side.

  Sweat trickled down the back of Wallace’s neck as they moved further away from the Peace Arch headquarters of U.S. Customs and Border Protection.

  Despite its recent makeover, the two-story building still looked tired as it squatted on a tarmac island in the middle of the incoming and outgoing traffic. The money it was promised to beef up security prior to the 2010 Winter Olympics had been compromised by a government that had inherited a financial sieve rather than a bucket.

  There was little activity visible on this side of the building. Most of the officers were on the far side, facing the ocean, screening five lanes of slow moving, bumper-to-bumper traffic. The outgoing vehicles weren’t their concern; they would all be handled by Canada Customs at the north end of the park.

  “They’re busy,” said the woman. “Looking for drugs and nervous tourists sneaking Cuban cigars. Don’t worry.” She squeezed his arm. “And don’t stare. It’s not polite.”

  She grinned up at him, but Wallace didn’t smile back.

  He couldn’t.

  Soon, the building vanished from sight as they strolled by a stand of tall cedars. No one called out for them to stop or fired a warning shot into the air.

  When they reached the parking lot, the woman led the way to a midnight blue Crew Cab truck.

  “Get in,” she said. “I’m ready for breakfast.”

  Wallace wiped the nervous sweat off his brow and climbed into the passenger seat.

  He was relieved to be back in America and one step closer to finding out what had happened to his family.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mr. Black sipped a cup of hot tea and munched on a breakfast sandwich consisting of a circular slice of lightly-spiced sausage atop a rubbery preformed egg patty and served inside a cheese-infused biscuit. Despite the greasy, powdery texture, he found it oddly satisfying.

  His cellphone chirped and the screen switched to the tracking program. The red dot was on the move.

  Mr. Black placed the phone in its dash-mounted charging cradle and watched as the red dot descended the mountain via a different route than the one it had taken to ascend.

  Curious.

  He wondered why Wallace and his companion were being so cautious. They had no reason to suspect the RCMP had any clue as to their current location.

  Not that it mattered. If he still cared when the time came to eliminate them, perhaps he would ask.

  Mr. Black continued to watch the red dot’s progress as it slowly wound its way down the mountain, moving closer to civilization and his own static position.

  CHAPTER 19

  Wallace and the woman he had learned was named Laurel sat in a small family-owned diner that overlooked Blaine Harbor. With moorage for nearly six hundred boats, the harbor also boasted waterfront trails plus clear views of the Peace Arch border and the Canadian seaside town of White Rock nestled a short distance beyond.

  Laurel ordered a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, and a green salad in place of the proffered biscuits and gravy. Wallace ordered coffee, but before the waitress walked away, Laurel asked her to also bring him an order of toast.

  “You have to eat,” Laurel said.

  “I’ll eat when I’m hungry,” Wallace snapped.

  Wallace hadn’t meant to be so rude, but his body chemistry was in turmoil. One moment his heart thumped so hard it threatened to break free of his ribcage, and the next, he wondered if it had stopped beating. He had never felt so helpless or so completely out of control in his life.

  He also hated waiting, but Laurel had assured him that Cheveyo was making some final arrangements to get him the supplies he requested. She didn’t have an address to give him until she heard from Cheveyo.

  Wallace turned to stare out at the boats bobbing on the waves. Most of them were covered in blue and green vinyl tarps, locked down for the oncoming winter. A few elderly locals, bundled in waterproof jackets, had risen early to stroll the boardwalk and their cheeks glowed with the bite of a salty wind.

  The promising red sky had turned a menacing gray and the threat of rain dragged the clouds so low they became part of an encroaching fog that wavered a short distance from shore.

  “The weather’s turning nasty,” said Wallace.

  Laurel glanced out the window and shrugged. “It does what it does.”

  Wallace twisted a paper napkin between his hands as if wringing the neck of a chicken.

  “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

  “Cheveyo requested it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Crow asked him.”

  “Do you know Cro
w?”

  Laurel nodded. “We’re family. Cousin of a cousin stuff, you know? Although I haven’t seen him in years, not since before I went to Iraq.”

  Wallace raised his eyebrows. “Iraq?”

  “Mmmm. I did two tours as a field medic there, plus a third in Afghanistan.”

  Wallace couldn’t hide his surprise. “You don’t look old enough.”

  Laurel grinned. “Good genes.”

  Wallace’s lips twitched. “Crow says something similar when he steals the last doughnut and then criticizes me for gaining weight.”

  Laurel smiled wider. “You’ve been friends a long time.”

  “A dozen years or so,” said Wallace. He changed the subject, not wanting to measure time. He already felt it flowing too quickly, like sand through arthritic fingers. “Are you still in the military?”

  “No. Soon as I paid Uncle Sam back for the training, I got the hell out. It wasn’t what I expected, but it gave me what I needed.”

  “Which was?” Wallace probed.

  “Let’s just say it opened my eyes to who and what I really wanted to be. I bought a small plane, a modified Beechcraft with low hours, and I’m able to travel from Rez to Rez, conducting clinics and offering medical help where I can.”

  “Nobel,” said Wallace.

  Laurel bristled. “I wouldn’t call it that. Some of those reservations make the city slums look like luxury housing. These tribes were conquered, practically wiped out, and it shows. America is so busy trying to buy friends in developing nations, that its forgotten the very people whose land its nation is built upon. It’s not noble, it’s vital. And with the help of friends, I do what I can.”

  “Friends like Cheveyo?” asked Wallace.

  “You’re one to judge.”

  Wallace flinched, but Laurel didn’t notice. Her eyes were sparking fire and her face had hardened.

  She continued without pause. “I’m proud of my heritage, but it sickens me to see what some of us have become. Yeah, our land and our livelihood was stolen and it sucks, but that doesn’t mean we stop living. As a people, we’re better than that. Even Cheveyo, in his own screwed-up way, understands and wants to help. If we want to survive, we need to pull together and adapt. Too many of us just can’t see it.”

  She took a deep breath, cooling the anger in her voice. “You ever get embarrassed for your own people?”

  “Every time I watch Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil,” said Wallace.

  Laurel’s mouth froze in mid-response, as if she had been expecting an entirely different answer, before she suddenly chuckled and relaxed. Wallace did the same.

  “Now I get what Crow sees in you,” she said.

  Wallace turned serious again. “But do you believe my story?”

  Laurel shrugged. “I don’t need to.”

  “But I want you to,” said Wallace. “It’s important.”

  Laurel steepled her fingers beneath her chin and focused her full attention on Wallace.

  “Tell me again,” she said. “From the beginning.”

  CHAPTER 20

  When Laurel’s breakfast arrived, she looked it over with eager anticipation.

  “You sure you don’t want some?”

  Wallace shook his head. He couldn’t even stomach the thought.

  Laurel dug in, breaking one of the egg yolks with a strip of crisp bacon and sliding it into her mouth.

  Wallace watched in silence, his mind churning over everything he had just told Laurel, exploring every detail, filtering out the distractions, the white noise.

  Finally he said, “Do you know where they made their mistake?”

  Laurel looked up in confusion. “Who?”

  Wallace’s eyes flashed anger. “Whoever took my family.”

  Laurel carefully wiped her mouth and fixed her gaze, returning her full attention to Wallace.

  “Go on.”

  “The photograph,” said Wallace. “It was the final piece of evidence needed to convince the police that I was out of my mind. Without that photo, the detectives might have listened to me and launched a real investigation.”

  “So why was that a mistake?” asked Laurel, playing devil’s advocate. “It obviously worked.”

  Wallace leaned forward. “But I know the photograph was a lie. Which means someone had to plant it.”

  Laurel raised her eyebrows. “Who?”

  Wallace closed his eyes and thought back to the previous day. The boys had been curious about the border, chattering excitedly when two of the guards stepped out of the office to walk a pair of handsome German Shepherds up and down the rows of waiting vehicles.

  Fred, his youngest, had called out from the backseat.

  “What are they looking for, Dad?”

  “Probably drugs,” Wallace answered.

  “How?” Fred asked.

  “The dogs can smell them. They’ve been specially trained to pick up the scent.”

  “What if the drugs are wrapped in plastic?”

  Wallace looked at his wife and grinned.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But a dog’s nose is more sensitive than a human’s.”

  “They can smell through plastic?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if the drug guys sprayed the drugs in perfume?”

  Wallace turned to his wife again, but Alicia wasn’t offering any help. She was engrossed in a Crafts magazine that promised to reveal all the secrets of felting old wool clothes into handsome modern covers for your cushions.

  “I’m sure that’s been tried,” Wallace said. “But the dogs must be able to smell the drugs even under perfume, otherwise they would stop using them.”

  Alex joined the conversation. “You said ‘probably drugs’, Dad. What else do the dogs look for?”

  Alex was older than his brother by eleven months, but they were almost mirror images — opposite, yet alike.

  If you gave Fred a toy, he would tear it apart within days. He loved to see how things worked, but only so far as the components within. He didn’t smash the toys, but very carefully deconstructed them, piece by intricate piece.

  Alex, on the other hand, liked to put things back together. He was always picking up Fred’s scattered bits and rebuilding them. The thing that impressed Wallace the most, however, was that Alex rarely built the same toy that the parts originally belonged to. Instead, he would combine parts from different toys to build something new and unique — until Fred took it apart again.

  Wallace didn’t know where the boys inherited their mechanical skills from. He had certainly never impressed anyone in shop class and Alicia wouldn’t have the linear patience to make sure the correct nut went with the right bolt. If you gave Alicia a box of Lego, she would be more likely to grab a hot-glue gun and turn the pieces into buttons or earrings rather than a futuristic fort for toy spacemen.

  “Some dogs are trained to sniff out explosives,” said Wallace in answer to his son’s question.

  “Like bombs?” asked Fred.

  Alicia flashed Wallace a warning glance, but it was too late.

  Both boys looked at each other and gushed in unison, “Cooooooool.”

  Fred pushed his face against the window as the dogs walked past the van with their noses pressed to the ground. After they were gone, Fred bounced in his seat.

  “We made it,” he cried. “No drugs or bombs.”

  Wallace rolled his eyes.

  When they finally arrived at the checkpoint, Wallace handed the guard their passports.

  “What’s the reason for your visit today?” The guard’s tone was clipped, almost a snarl.

  “Pleasure,” said Wallace. He tried to smile, to appear relaxed and pleasant, but it did nothing to appease the guard’s demeanor.

  “Your destination?”

  “We’re going to Bellingham,” said Wallace. “A little shopping, a little weekend R&R, you know?”

  The guard glared at him. “You mean you’d like to visit Bellingham?”

  He emphasized the wor
d ‘like’ to let them know that whether they were allowed to cross the border and visit the neighboring town was entirely within his control.

  Wallace bristled and his first, unuttered thought was “you fucking jerk.”

  He had crossed the border numerous times in the past. Sometimes he lucked out and landed a friendly guard, but he had definitely encountered his fair share of assholes, too.

  He didn’t know if it was part of their training, some psychological trick to make civilians nervous about trying to sneak forbidden items across the border, or if it was just the type of personality that was attracted to an authoritarian role.

  He had often found the same arrogance in encounters with security guards, the military and police. If bus drivers were allowed to carry weapons to protect themselves against unruly passengers, there was a good chance they would likely attract the same type, too.

  Instead of rising to the bait, Wallace controlled the impulse and simply replied, “Yes, sir.”

  His sons could sense the tension and instantly went quiet the moment he supplicated to the guard. Thinking back on it now, Wallace didn’t like the lesson that taught.

  He pictured the guard’s face in his mind. He wasn’t good with guessing the ages of people, but he would place him in his early to mid thirties. His hair could be mistaken for blond, but it was actually white. It was buzzed short at the sides and spiked on top. There was definitely product in his hair to hold the look.

  The prick was handsome, too, if you liked your men looking like they belonged on the cover of a bodybuilding magazine. His eyes were so light they were almost colorless and his jaw was square enough that he could use it to measure cabinets. The sleeves of his shirt had been tight to show off muscular arms, and the button on his collar had been loose beneath the tie because his neck was too thick.

  Had there been a tattoo? Wallace couldn’t remember, but there had been something just beneath his left ear. A dark mark, almost like a forked lightning bolt. It had caught Wallace’s eye but failed to make a lasting impression.

  If the guard hadn’t been such a jerk, Wallace probably wouldn’t have remembered if he was black or white. It just took that one moment, that brief challenge to his masculinity, forcing him to bow his head and back down in front of his wife, in front of his sons.