No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  The unexpected sight caught Wallace by surprise.

  “What the fuck?”

  The guard spun at the sudden intrusion. He was bare-chested with sloppy lipstick kiss marks dotting his smooth, swollen pecs. The marks betrayed a playful beginning to a deadly game — one last kiss; one last loose end.

  The guard’s eyes widened in disbelief as Wallace, armed and confused, filled the doorway. But then, without any regard for the limp form upon his shoulder, the guard released his hold on the detective and leapt off the chair.

  In Wallace’s mind, time slowed.

  The guard seemed to float, his body twisting as he aimed for the bed and the leather holster resting on the nearby nightstand. In the same moment, the detective’s inert body dropped toward the floor.

  “Don’t!”

  Wallace’s shotgun boomed, the noise deafening, tearing chunks of plaster from the rear wall above the bed and causing an enormous cloud of white dust to explode inward. The dust was so thick it wrapped itself around the guard like a wizard’s cloak of invisibility.

  “Don’t move! Don’t move!”

  Wallace tried to rush forward, to stop the guard from reaching his gun, but his way was blocked when the noose snapped around the detective’s neck, stopping his fall with a violent jerk.

  The detective’s eyes sprang open in fearful panic, the pupils rolling as if unable to focus, and a guttural, choking screech escaped his lips. His throat was turning purple, his face red. His feet thrashed wildly, but his hands were bound behind his back and he had no way to stop himself from being hanged . . .

  Wallace hesitated, not knowing what to do. If he lowered the gun to help . . .

  The decision was taken from him as the detective’s flailing feet miraculously found purchase on the wobbly wooden chair.

  Wallace’s attention immediately swung back to the guard whose hunched and ghostly form within the cloud of dust was circling around the detective’s swaying body as though preparing to attack.

  “Don’t fucking move,” Wallace screamed. He pumped the shotgun for emphasis, proving it was loaded. “There’s no place to run. I only want my family.”

  The guard did two things simultaneously.

  He freed his gun from its holster.

  And he kicked the chair.

  The detective’s feet instantly lost purchase with the tumbling chair and his body swung free again to block Wallace’s line of sight. If he fired, the shotgun’s wide spread would cut the hanging detective in half.

  The guard didn’t face the same dilemma.

  He opened fire.

  Wallace hissed in pain and stumbled backwards. The inside of his arm burned and he lost his footing. A piece of the wall exploded beside his ear as his feet slid out from under him. On the way down, his skull cracked against the door frame and a flash of starry darkness blurred his vision. When he hit the floor, his finger tightened on the trigger and his shotgun boomed for a second time.

  Another, even thicker cloud of plaster filled the room as a huge chunk of the ceiling gave way and the detective crashed to the floor.

  Cursing himself and knowing he was in mortal danger, Wallace shook off the pain and quickly scrambled back to his feet.

  His choice was simple. Retreat or move forward.

  He chambered another round — the menacing sound of the shotgun unexpectedly making him feel slightly less vulnerable. The thick plaster dust made it impossible to see. It was like standing in the middle of heavy fog.

  Another gunshot filled the room and something small, hot and lethal brushed Wallace’s hair. He yelped in surprise and dove to one side, hitting the floor again and rolling with the shotgun clutched to his chest.

  Two more shots followed to puncture the wall where he had just been standing.

  Wallace kept rolling. Under the bed where all scared children fled — only he didn’t stop.

  He rolled to the other side and rose up on his knees.

  The air cleared noticeably in front of the bedroom window where the single-paned glass in the window was shattered in such a way it resembled the guillotine teeth of a Halloween pumpkin.

  Wallace saw the guard’s broad shoulders through the cloud of dust. He was moving cautiously toward the door, gun extended, to where he had last seen Wallace fall.

  Knowing he was outmatched, Wallace didn’t shout a warning or try to fight fair. With an internal roar, he reversed the shotgun in his hand and sprang to his feet. Before the guard could react to his onrushing footsteps, Wallace slammed the butt-end of the gun into a tender spot above his right ear.

  Bone cracked and flesh split, but the guard only dropped to one knee. No stranger to physical pain, the guard shook off the devastating blow. Wallace gulped in disbelief as the guard turned and lunged. His teeth were bared and his fingers had curled into eye-gouging claws.

  Wallace took one step back, fighting against every natural impulse to turn and run, to take his chances with the broken window. Instead, he raised the shotgun again and slammed the guard square in the face with every ounce of strength he had left.

  There was a sickening crunch as rubber-sheathed metal met bone and the guard’s eyes rolled into the back of his head before he collapsed to the floor and lay still.

  CHAPTER 33

  Cheveyo entered the hospital with five warriors in tow and went directly to Emergency.

  When they pushed through the doors, a dark-haired nurse with all the curves of a blackboard eraser immediately strode forward and held up both hands.

  “Stop right there, boyos,” she growled. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Cheveyo fixed her with a steely glare.

  “My cousin was just brought in by ambulance. I need to see him right away.”

  The nurse didn’t bat an eye. “That’s not going to be possible now, is it? You’ll have to wait. There are chairs in the hall.”

  Cheveyo rolled his shoulders and glanced at Kuruk. With arms crossed, he was as immobile as the old wooden drugstore Indians once used to advertise pipe tobacco. The only difference was in the eyes. Kuruk’s never stopped moving. Even in a hospital, he trusted no one.

  One word from Cheveyo and the nurse would be swept aside, but that wouldn’t get him the answers he needed.

  Cheveyo changed his tone. “Could you tell the RCMP constable, Marvin Joe, that his cousin would like to speak with him?”

  The nurse nodded. “I can do that. Now wait out in the hall.”

  Cheveyo and his warriors retreated to the waiting area.

  TEN MINUTES later, Marvin pushed through the Emergency doors and approached the six men. Cheveyo stood and they walked a short way down the hall to a refrigerated vending machine.

  Neither man bothered to put coins in the machine, although Marvin appeared jittery enough to have already consumed more than his share of the caffeinated beverages within.

  “How is he?” asked Cheveyo.

  “Better than you would expect. He got lucky.”

  “How?”

  Marvin sighed. “I don’t know all the details yet. We were called to the scene by a distraught realtor. She was showing an empty house to some clients when she heard a noise in the garage. When she opened the door, she saw an unknown black man cutting into Crow’s stomach. She screamed and the suspect fled.” Marvin’s voice trembled slightly. “Crow had been tied to a chair and tortured, but if the realtor hadn’t shown up, it was about to get real gruesome.”

  “Did you get a better description of this man?” Cheveyo asked.

  “No. The realtor’s in shock. She was barely coherent.” Marvin ran a tongue across dry lips and plucked nervously at his left eyebrow. “What the fuck is going on? If you know anything—”

  “I’m as much in the dark as you are,” said Cheveyo. “What about Crow. Has he said anything?”

  “The docs kicked us out so they could sew him up, but I’m going to talk to him as soon as they’re done.”

  “We’ll wait,” said Cheveyo. “I need answers, t
oo.”

  As Marvin turned to leave, his cellphone rang. He flipped it open and listened for a moment before hanging up. A frown creased his forehead and his pace quickened as he returned through the doors to Emergency.

  CROW LOOKED as if he had been dredged out of a watery grave and dumped onto the metal bed for autopsy. His skin was grey, but the nurses had bundled him under a large pile of over washed hospital blankets and a more natural color was already beginning its return to his sharp-boned cheeks.

  Marvin pulled up a chair beside his bed.

  “The docs say you were lucky. Nothing important nicked. Just a deep flesh wound. There’ll barely even be a scar.” Marvin tried to smile. “You could say it was all those Tim Horton doughnuts that saved you.”

  Crow didn’t return the smile. “I don’t think that was the plan,” he said solemnly. “He wanted me dead.”

  “Who?”

  “He called himself Mr. Black.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Wallace.”

  Marvin raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Marvin sighed. “But you know, right?”

  “Honestly,” said Crow. “I have no idea.”

  Marvin sighed again. “So where is Wallace?”

  Crow winced. “That’s all he kept asking. And do you know what the worst part is?”

  Marvin shook his head.

  “I don’t even really know,” said Crow. “Not for sure.” He tried to smile, but it crumbled upon his lips. “The son of a bitch killed the wrong fucking Indian.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Standing over the body of the unconscious guard, Wallace surveyed the scene as the plaster dust settled. It looked like a home-made bomb had gone off — something that packed a punch but was just plain messy.

  He stepped over the guard and knelt by the detective. As he loosened the silk cord from around the man’s neck, he felt something warm and wet flowing down the side of his own body, underneath his left arm. When he touched it, his hand came back covered in blood.

  One of the guard’s bullets had scored a hit, but Wallace was so pumped up on fear and adrenaline, the pain had yet to kick in.

  He shook his head in disbelief, knowing he was so far out of his depth it was a miracle to still be alive.

  He wiped the blood on his shirt and felt for a pulse at the detective’s neck. It was shallow but steady. He glanced up at the ceiling where his shotgun had blown a hole clean through to the rafters.

  The detective was lucky to be alive, and Wallace doubted he would cause any trouble for awhile.

  He quickly surveyed the room again and moved to the bedside bureau. Inside the top drawer, lying beside the detective’s shield and gun, Wallace found a pair of steel handcuffs.

  In the next drawer down, he found a second pair. Unlike the regulation cuffs, however, this off-duty pair was made of lighter steel and wrapped in pink fur. They were nestled beside a red rubber-ball gag the size of a clown’s nose and some kind of odd stainless-steel plug that resembled a child’s old-fashioned spinning top.

  Wallace returned to the guard and used the first set of cuffs to lock his hands securely behind his back. He used the fur-lined pair around the man’s ankles. He also decided to use the gag, slipping the rubber ball into the guard’s slack mouth. The guard had a large, melon-shaped head, but the gag’s leather strap fit him without any adjustment.

  When he was finished, Wallace dug his hands into the guard’s armpits and attempted to drag him across the floor.

  His lower back went into spasm at the dead weight and the wound under his arm flared into white-hot existence.

  Wallace released the body and cursed.

  Time was slipping away.

  He had to think.

  Then it came to him.

  He left the room and moved to the front door. It was still ajar from when he had first entered. A moment in time that now seemed a lifetime ago. With a deep, calming breath, he moved onto the front porch, expecting to find a mob of curious neighbors wondering what all the noise was about.

  But to his great relief, the street remained empty. Either they were keeping their heads down or — Wallace glanced at his watch — most people were still at work.

  Without wasting time, Wallace cut across the yard and down the street. He climbed into his truck and threw it into reverse. When he reached the bungalow, he bumped over the curb and backed across the lawn to park with just enough room for the lowered tailgate to reach the lip of the porch.

  With sweat dripping down his face and blood dripping down his side, Wallace slid out of the truck.

  Moving with purpose and determination, he grabbed the red wheelbarrow from beside the green dumpster and rolled it inside the house.

  WALLACE DUMPED the guard into the rear of the truck and double-checked the steel cuffs. The guard remained unconscious, the brutal blow to his skull even more devastating than Wallace had realized.

  Fucker deserved it, said his inner voice. He wouldn’t have hesitated to do worse to you.

  Wallace slammed the tailgate closed so that it pinched the loose end of the tarp and secured it tight.

  Breathing heavily, fearing he was pushing his luck, Wallace ventured back into the house and down the hall to the bedroom. His left leg throbbed, the muscles cramping and making his limp more pronounced, but it was just another ache, another reminder that, despite the odds, he was still alive.

  In the doorway, Wallace surveyed the destroyed room. Plaster dust covered every surface. The guard’s handgun was a distinct lump on the floor, while his uniform shirt hung from a bedpost. Wallace moved inside and grabbed both.

  Finally, he took a moment to check on the detective again.

  He squatted down, wiped some of the dust away from the unconscious man’s nostrils and mouth, and loosened the silk noose a little further. Even as he performed these tasks, Wallace wished he could be a different kind of man.

  He wanted to press his knee against the detective’s throat and push down until he heard that satisfying crunch as the windpipe collapsed. This bastard had helped put his family in peril. He didn’t deserve to live.

  But Wallace wasn’t that man.

  At least, not yet.

  “I hope this ends your fucking career,” he hissed.

  Before leaving, Wallace picked up the bedroom phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  CHAPTER 35

  Marvin leaned forward and asked, “What do you mean? He killed the wrong Indian.”

  Crow rubbed at his eyes, wiping away tears.

  “JoeJoe helped Wallace cross the border. I don’t even know where he was headed.”

  “You better explain.”

  “I already did, remember? Last night.” Crow’s voice turned hard, angry. “Wallace’s family is missing, but you didn’t believe me, so my friend is out there by himself and now this crazy son of a bitch is after him, too.”

  Marvin ground his teeth. “I had no reason to believe you, Crow. You didn’t see that house. The evidence was—”

  “Bullshit!” said Crow. “I know Wallace. I know what he’s capable of and what he’s not.”

  Marvin flinched. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Crow noticed the change in Marvin’s tone and pushed himself up on his elbows. He flinched slightly as pain flared from his freshly-stitched abdomen.

  “What does that mean?” he challenged.

  Marvin flicked his eyes to the door and shrugged. “I called in a favor at the lab. Asked them to take a quick look at the blood evidence. Just to see if there was anything that we could rule out.”

  “And?” Crow pressed.

  With a sigh, Marvin asked, “Does Wallace have a dog?”

  “No, Alicia’s allergic. That’s why he was being so soppy about that damn stray cat. Why?” And then it dawned on him. “Son of a bitch. It’s not even human blood is it?”

  Slowly, Marvin shook his head.

  CHAPTER 36

  Six blocks from the detective�
��s house, Wallace pulled into a side street and flipped open a brown leather wallet. From inside, he plucked out a Washington State driver’s license. The border guard’s name was Desmond Morris.

  Wallace punched the guard’s home address into the truck’s built-in GPS. Within seconds, the tiny computer calculated and displayed the fastest route. It was only a few miles away, outside of the city but still in a busy residential area.

  Wallace felt the adrenaline drain from his body, causing him to shiver as a hollow darkness took its place. Judging by the address, the guard’s residence didn’t appear to be a place where one could easily keep a woman and her two boys locked up and out of sight.

  He leaned against the side window, his cheek touching the glass. His left arm was tight against his body, his hand gripping his stomach as though to lock the pain in place. He could feel the blood still leaking from the wound. His eyes were half-closed; breathing rapid but controlled. The pain was intense but manageable.

  He needed a place to talk to the guard. To get answers. He also needed to search his house. To leave no stone unturned.

  Wallace put the truck in gear and took off down the street, following the GPS unit’s turn-by-turn directions.

  THE GUARD known as Desmond Morris lived in the end unit of a three-story condominium fourplex with peek-a-boo distant ocean views from the top two floors.

  The bottom floor consisted entirely of a private single car garage.

  Using the guard’s keys, Wallace entered the condo through the front door. He carried the shotgun, but kept it down by his side — out of sight of any curious neighbors.

  He surmised that since the guard was gay and his boyfriend owned his own home, the condo would likely be empty. He was proven correct as he conducted a quick search of the top two floors without interruption.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t find any locked doors or sign of occupancy by anyone other than the muscle-bound neat-freak he had bound and gagged out in the truck. If Alicia and the boys had been here, they hadn’t left any trace.