No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  The only thing that seemed unusual was an overabundance of mirrors. Every room had at least one. Either the guard really liked to look at himself or he never wanted someone to sneak up from behind.

  Wallace suspected the former.

  Moving down to the garage level, Wallace located and tapped the automatic opener. As soon as the folding door trundled open, he ducked under and rushed back to the truck.

  He drove the vehicle inside and slapped the button again. The door lowered smoothly, hiding the truck and its contents from prying eyes.

  The garage was meticulously clean, but so narrow it was difficult for Wallace to shuffle his way around the truck without smacking into a wall. Every moist bump told him he needed to bandage himself and stop the bleeding, but a more primitive part of his brain told him he needed to secure the guard first.

  The man was just too dangerous to leave alone for too long.

  Wallace opened the tailgate and grabbed the guard by his bound ankles. With a deep breath, he yanked hard, pulling the body to the edge of the tailgate. The guard groaned and suddenly kicked his legs, narrowly missing Wallace’s face and causing him to jump back in fright.

  Without Wallace to hold him up, the guard slipped out of the truck and fell three feet to the floor. With his hands bound behind his back, he hit the concrete pad with a bone-jarring slap. The noise was akin to a cheap steak being tenderized by a steel mallet.

  The guard immediately went limp again as Wallace’s eyes darted to the cab of the truck where he had left his shotgun and the weighted baseball bat.

  Wallace stood still, regaining his composure, and waited a full minute to be sure. When the guard failed to open his eyes, Wallace bent to check his pulse. Despite the fall and the beating, it still felt stronger than his own.

  Remembering his gym days, Wallace bent his knees to take the weight, kept his back straight and reached down. The wheelbarrow wouldn’t work with stairs. He wrapped his arms around the guard’s chest and slowly dragged him up the two short flights of stairs, taking one agonizing step at a time.

  On the main level, Wallace dragged the guard through a stark and modern living room to an attached open-plan dining room. There, he heaved the man’s limp form onto one of four matching high-backed chairs. The chair was incredibly heavy. Custom designed, its gothic framework was solid iron that had been bent and shaped in a blacksmith’s furnace and finished with a dense smoky paint.

  After studying the chair’s architecture for a moment, Wallace carefully unlocked one of the cuffs around the guard’s left wrist, slipped the chain underneath an iron crossbar and then quickly reattached it to his wrist. After he did the same with the ankle cuffs, the guard and the chair were solidly attached.

  Although he felt physically drained, Wallace didn’t trust steel alone to contain the guard — especially since the fur-lined pair of cuffs appeared more novelty than professional. With a weary sigh, he returned to the truck and unraveled a long length of rope from the tarp. He also retrieved his shotgun and custom Phineas baseball bat.

  Back in the living room, he placed the gun and the bat on the guard’s high-end leather couch before putting his knot-tying ability to good use. By the time he was done, the guard was lucky to still be able to expand and contract his lungs.

  Finally satisfied, Wallace returned to the couch and lowered himself into a comfortable position. The butter cream leather was even softer than it had looked, but Wallace had only been sitting for a minute before he saw the armrest changing color from his own leaking blood.

  Heaving the heavy guard up the stairs had made his wound open wider.

  “Shit!” he said aloud.

  He glanced around and saw a small washroom off the kitchen. He tried to get to his feet, but his muscles trembled in protest.

  He needed five minutes. Just a little breather. And then . . .

  His inner voice, barely audible through the cloud of pain and exhaustion, returned. “Call her.”

  Cursing again . . . wishing he was stronger . . . better . . . more capable, Wallace dug into his pocket and pulled out a blank business card with a handwritten phone number on it.

  The guard’s home phone was sitting in a charger within easy reach of the couch.

  His inner voice was right. He needed help.

  Wallace dialed.

  CHAPTER 37

  The moment he cleared the border, Mr. Black exhaled a rare sigh of delight. He was back in America. The land of the free, the strong, overcrowded, arrogant and proud.

  To an outsider, the people to the north might resemble their mighty southern neighbors. In fact, everything about them — their food, clothing, entertainment, media — screamed U.S.A, except for the single most important aspect: they didn’t want to be American.

  Brazen socialists, they celebrated pacifism without acknowledging the only reason peace was even possible was because their umbilically-attached ally was the most powerful war machine on Earth.

  Huddled in isolated pockets scattered across a resource rich land ripe for pillage, Canadians were still locked in a delusional belief that politeness and fair play would keep the rapists from the door.

  Their naiveté was laughable.

  They could never understand what it was to build a monument that pierced the sky, only to watch it burn to the ground out of petty rage and jealousy. Where they might cower beneath such aggression, America would do what it had always done: raise its middle finger and build one bigger, taller, more impressive.

  One day.

  And yet . . .

  Mr. Black shook the thought away. His target had been lucky. That was all. And now his luck was running out.

  His cellphone chirped from its dash-mounted cradle.

  Mr. Black scowled and tapped the appropriate icon. A short message appeared onscreen. The message contained no inflection of fury or even disappointment, but he felt its presence just the same.

  He tapped a short reply before pulling off the interstate on a slip road that led into the drive-thru lane of the first Jack in the Box hamburger stand he saw. He had been thinking of an Oreo milkshake for days.

  As he waited for the car in front of him to order, Mr. Black studied the customers who had chosen to eat inside the restaurant. From the license plates in the parking lot at least half the patrons were Canadian tourists. He found it disturbing that without hearing them speak, that subtle difference in phonetics, he couldn’t immediately tell which were which.

  It had been like that in the sand, too. Enemies and allies too much alike to know who was on your side. And even when you thought you knew . . . things could change.

  He ordered a milkshake and was just about to take that first, cheek-hollowing sip when his cellphone chirped again. He placed the drink in a holder, wiped his hands on a napkin and touched the message icon.

  He frowned as he read the short message before tapping the GPS co-ordinates contained within. His phone instantly switched to its mapping program and displayed the fastest route.

  With milkshake in hand, he returned to the interstate and headed south.

  CHAPTER 38

  Wallace clutched the Defender shotgun by his side and nervously peered through the peephole set in the middle of the door. The wide-angle lens distorted the woman’s face, but even in exaggerated detail her beauty was unmistakable.

  With her dark hair pulled back in a fiercely tight ponytail, Laurel’s face appeared more sculpted than ever. Sharp lines accented where her jaw met her chin and where prominent cheekbones curved in toward a strong, perfectly symmetrical nose.

  Her mouth wasn’t smiling this time and the creases on her lips were tight with concern.

  Wallace unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

  “Men and guns,” she sighed. “Show me your wound.”

  Wallace closed the door and led the way upstairs.

  As Laurel reached the main-floor landing and moved into
the living room, she glanced over at the man tied to the chair in the adjoining room. Wallace watched her eyes skim the bloodied and broken mess of the guard’s face, but her demeanor didn’t change. She was a woman who had seen worse.

  “Did you do that?” she asked.

  “The bastard took my family. Besides . . .” Wallace lifted his wounded arm to show the amount of blood soaked into his shirt. “. . . he’s already paid me back.”

  Laurel turned to face him. “He’s the border guard you were telling me about? The one who sent the photo.”

  Wallace nodded. “I still need to talk to him. Find out who else he’s working with.”

  Laurel frowned. “You mean you haven’t started?”

  Wallace couldn’t hide his embarrassment. “As you can see, it was more difficult to get him alone than I hoped.”

  Wallace quickly filled her in on what had happened at the detective’s house.

  When he was done, Laurel asked, “Why did you call the emergency operator?”

  Wallace shrugged. “I couldn’t bring him along and I didn’t want the bastard to die. If things don’t work out here, I might still need him. These two are the only leads I have.”

  Laurel frowned again. “The cops might come here.”

  “I don’t plan to stay long.”

  “We better hurry then.”

  Laurel placed a hand on Wallace’s arm and led him to the couch. When he was settled, she sat beside him and lifted his wrist to take his pulse.

  “You’ve made a mess of this beautiful couch,” she said.

  Wallace looked at her through sunken eyes and grinned to mask the pain. He changed the subject.

  “How many soldiers got themselves shot just to be treated by you, I wonder?”

  “Only one,” said Laurel. “But I believe he was more relieved to be sent home to his mother than to have me digging a bullet out of his thigh.” She flashed the tiniest of smiles. “We were low on anesthetic and he was allergic to morphine. His screams scared the other boys shitless.”

  Laurel released Wallace’s wrist and moved to kneel in front of his left side. She produced a small pair of stainless steel scissors from her medic’s bag.

  “Lift your arm,” she instructed. “Put it behind your head and keep it there.”

  She cut a large panel out of the shirt, removing the sleeve in the process but keeping the collar. Blood bubbled and oozed from a smooth puncture just below Wallace’s armpit in the fleshy part of his side.

  Laurel pinned back the flap of shirt, exposing a larger and more ragged exit wound. It was as though the bullet had punched its way in, but then chewed its way out. The exit wound was the size of a Bluenose dime.

  Laurel made a clicking noise with her tongue before digging in her bag and returning with a pair of thin translucent surgical gloves.

  Wallace winced and groaned as Laurel probed and palpitated his wound with her gloved fingers.

  “It’s clean,” she said. “The bullet went straight through. No arteries nicked that I can see. No muscle damage. You’re lucky. A few inches to the right and it would have pierced your heart. It just needs cleaning and stitches.”

  “What about blood loss?” asked Wallace.

  “Have some liver for dinner.” She winked. “You’re only down a pint or so.”

  Wallace made a disgusted face. Liver, fried in onion and bacon with a baked potato on the side, was one of Alicia’s favorite meals. But whenever she took the notion for it, Wallace managed to convince her that only the local family restaurant could do it any justice. That way he and the boys could treat themselves to something less revolting.

  “I’ll need hot water and towels,” said Laurel. “Have you taken any painkillers?”

  “No. I was going to look, but—”

  “Good,” she interrupted. “Most people think all pain medication is the same. It’s not. In your condition, you need to avoid acetylsalicylic acid.”

  “Avoid what?” asked Wallace.

  “Aspirin,” said Laurel. “It’s an anti-coagulant. Not good when you’re bleeding.”

  “Oh. I was hoping you might have something better anyway? A pill that takes the edge off but won’t make me drowsy.”

  Laurel smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  When Laurel returned from the kitchen with a basin of hot water and a small stack of fresh white towels that she found in a hall cupboard, she quickly and efficiently cleaned Wallace’s wound. When she was done, she dabbed it with a splash of peroxide from a small brown bottle.

  Next, she held up a length of black thread and removed a curved needle from a sterilized pouch.

  “I don’t have any anesthetic,” she said. “So this is going to hurt.”

  Wallace gritted his teeth together in dreaded anticipation.

  “Suddenly,” he moaned, “you don’t seem so attractive anymore.”

  Laurel laughed delightedly. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

  She plunged the needle into his skin and began to sew.

  CHAPTER 39

  The guard opened his eyes and groaned as Laurel was tying the final knot on Wallace’s exit wound and clipping off the stray ends of thread with her tiny scissors.

  His first word was unrecognizable behind the ball gag, but its intent was clear enough. He followed the expletive with a vigorous testing of his bonds.

  The rope and cuffs held strong. The heavy iron chair barely wobbled.

  Wallace swallowed two orange pills that Laurel said would help block the pain, and picked up the custom baseball bat.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said to Laurel. “But you might want to leave now.”

  Laurel blinked. She didn’t appear disturbed.

  “I know what he’s done,” she said. “I’ll stay. See what he has to say.”

  Wallace met her gaze, preparing to argue, but knowing he didn’t have the strength for it.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just don’t try to stop me.”

  THE GUARD watched Wallace approach with steely disdain.

  There was no fear.

  Not yet.

  His forehead had swollen into a puffy ridge like a battered Neanderthal. The skin was yellow and tender with underlying ripples of green, purple and dark indigo. Both eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them blackened to resemble a raccoon. His nose didn’t look broken, but Wallace suspected the shotgun’s blunt impact had cracked bone beneath the heavy eyebrow ridge.

  Concussion or brain swelling was likely, but Wallace didn’t care.

  He moved behind the guard and unbuckled the strap that held the gag. He reached around to—

  “Don’t go near his mouth,” said Laurel. “He could easily take your fingers off. I’ve seen it happen.”

  The guard shot Laurel a foul look as if that had been exactly his intent.

  Wallace nodded his thanks and held the leather strap off to the side of the guard’s head. He tugged until the rubber ball reluctantly popped out of the guard’s mouth.

  The guard immediately spat a thick wad of blood and saliva onto the floor, then moved his jaw from side to side, working out the kinks.

  “Should’ve left it in.” His voice was hoarse. “I ain’t telling you a goddamn thing.”

  Wallace didn’t hesitate. He didn’t have time nor patience for meaningless bravado. He gripped the bat in both hands and swung, letting his uninjured right arm carry most of the weight.

  The weighted bat skimmed the surface of the guard’s left knee, just catching the knob of bone in what a ballplayer would call a foul tip. There was a nasty crunch and pop as the knee cap seemed to separate from the rest of the leg before cartilage and tendons snapped it back in place. It was quickly followed by the guard’s snarling bellow of pain.

  “Fucking coward,” screamed the guard. “Can’t take me man to man so you gotta do it like this?”

  “Where’s my family?” said Wallace.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Why did you take them?”<
br />
  “Fuck you twice.”

  Wallace swung the bat again to the same knee. The crunch was louder this time, more contact, more pain, and the guard’s face turned the color of his towels. He growled more than screamed and his breath quickened like an angry bull about to be unleashed from its cage. His face flushed red and streams of pink snot flowed from his nostrils.

  “Where’s my family?” said Wallace.

  “You’ll never find them.”

  “Who has them?”

  The guard snorted to clear his nasal passages, but he didn’t answer.

  “Why did you . . . take them?” Wallace tried to be fierce, impervious, but his voice broke on the question.

  The guard slid his lips open to expose bright red teeth. He had bit his tongue or the inside of his mouth while containing his pain.

  “For a murdering bastard, you’re kind of a pussy.”

  Wallace stared at the man in horror. “Murder? What do you mean?”

  The guard grinned wider and shook his head.

  Wallace hefted the bat in his hand. He snarled, “I’ll fucking break you open.”

  The guard practically laughed. “You think I ain’t had worse?”

  Wallace swung the bat for a third time, harder. There was no crunch. This time it was a sharp, brutal Snap!

  The guard screamed so loud that Wallace felt it reverberate deep in his bones.

  “Too noisy,” yelled Laurel. She tossed Wallace one of the bloody towels she had used to clean his wound.

  Wallace snatched the towel out of the air and stuffed it into the guard’s mouth, muffling him.

  The guard’s eyes were wide now, his nostrils flared. His swollen forehead was beaded in cold, clammy sweat. But despite everything, he still didn’t look remotely afraid.

  Wallace turned his back on the prisoner and threw the bat angrily to one side. It skidded across the floor and crashed into a wall. He went to rub his face and saw the dried blood that covered his hands.