No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  When he was done, he headed for the stairs.

  He still had work to do.

  CHAPTER 45

  Laurel drove Wallace out of Bellingham and into the country. After a few miles, they left the blacktop and bumped down a gravel road lined with trees. A few miles after that, the car turned down a steep hill and onto a dirt road that wound its way into the bosom of a lush green valley.

  At the bottom of the road, a small log cabin sat atop a stone foundation near the banks of a narrow creek.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” said Laurel. “I’ve always found it to be a peaceful retreat.”

  Wallace studied the rolling hills surrounding them.

  “No place to land your plane,” he said.

  Laurel grinned. “That’s why it’s peaceful. This is where I come when I’m not working.”

  She parked in front of a detached garage and climbed out. Wallace followed her across the roofed porch and through the front door. The door hadn’t been locked.

  “Trusting,” he said.

  “Good neighbors,” she replied. “Robbing me would be like robbing them. Most of them are hunters and not too keen on strangers.”

  Inside the house, Laurel placed the metal box and laptop on the kitchen table. Wallace followed with his silent offering of a lone pair of military dog tags.

  “It’s something,” Laurel said.

  Wallace shrugged and shifted his gaze away from hers, not wanting to show his disappointment and dismay at having left the most valuable clue behind.

  Laurel walked over to a nearby wall phone and reached out for it just as it rang. She smiled as she answered.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “He’s a friend. Yes, I’m sure. Everything is fine.”

  She hung up and turned to Wallace. Her smile was wide and bright and infectious with delight.

  “Told you,” she said. “Good neighbors.”

  Wallace tried to smile back, but the corners of his mouth barely bent. Seeing he needed a distraction, Laurel moved back to the table and opened the laptop.

  By closing the lid without shutting it down, Wallace had simply placed the computer into sleep mode. When Laurel opened the lid again, the laptop quickly returned to life and displayed the last thing Wallace had seen.

  Laurel studied the manipulated photograph, clicking the eye icons to reveal and hide the top layer.

  “This is nice work,” she said.

  Wallace glared at her.

  “I mean,” she added quickly, “that it isn’t amateurish. A lot of people fool around with Photoshop, but it’s usually pretty easy to spot the fakes. Someone took their time with this one. Someone with skills.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Wallace.

  “Did the guard strike you as an artistic soul?”

  Wallace shrugged. “Too narcissistic. There wasn’t a single painting in his house. Just mirrors.”

  “Let me try something.”

  Laurel moved the pointer up to the program’s menu and down a long list of items until she found the one she was looking for. When she clicked it, a new window opened. It revealed a ton of information about the image, including the name of its creator.

  “Vanity, thy name is . . . J. Ronson.” Laurel looked up at Wallace. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Wallace bit back a curse and shook his head angrily. “The guard’s name was Morris. None of these names, none of these people mean anything to me. Not a goddamn thing.”

  Laurel’s eyes softened, but as though she could sense that sympathy would only weaken his barely held together resolve, she pushed the laptop aside and picked up the metal box.

  She pursed her lips as she studied the small lock.

  “I have some tools in the garage,” she said finally. “Be right back.”

  Wallace watched Laurel leave before he pulled out one of the sturdy kitchen chairs and sat down. He rested his elbows on the table and placed his head in his hands.

  He was so damn tired, but all he could think about was Alicia, Fred and Alex.

  His loved ones needed him to find them. They were counting on it. Believing in it. And unless he died trying, he couldn’t fail them.

  CHAPTER 46

  When Mr. Black answered the text message on his phone, he was naked and glistening from the shower.

  Before rinsing in water as cold as the tap could deliver, Mr. Black had cleansed himself in scalding heat, allowing the entire room to fill with steam and relax the wrinkles from his suit hung on the bathroom door.

  He had felt the blood and daily grime ooze from his pores to wash down the drain and leave him pure, untouched, alive.

  He sat on the bidet and reinserted the earpiece as he tapped his reply. The condo was beginning to feel like home and he wondered what the presence of a dead man in the dining room would do to the selling price. Perhaps he could buy it with Desmond’s own money.

  The thought made him smile.

  Entering the bedroom, Mr. Black studied the piles of silk boxers littering the floor. Despite his muscular bulk, Desmond had a relatively slim waist. Mr. Black had never worn silk, but it looked much too tempting to resist.

  He picked up a pair of purple boxers with a button fly, slipped them on and gasped at the sensual caress of the material. It felt . . . wonderful.

  Why wasn’t everything made of silk?

  Mr. Black retrieved his suit from the bathroom. The material now felt rough in his hands and although the wrinkles were noticeably diminished, the stains looked worse — rehydrated and fresh.

  His cellphone buzzed again.

  He read the message and frowned.

  This game was becoming tiresome. He wished Wallace had stuck around so that he could have ended it once and for all. Not everyone would have been pleased, but at least it would have been over and they could start something new, something lucrative.

  Glancing down at the package on the bed, Mr. Black appeased his disappointment with the knowledge that at least he wouldn’t be arriving at his next destination empty-handed.

  CHAPTER 47

  They opened the box.

  It was surprisingly easy. A heavy wood chisel, a hammer and a single solid whack in the right spot split the lock in half. If doctoring became too dull, Laurel had a future in safe cracking.

  Inside, they found military discharge papers, a series of newspaper clippings and two photographs.

  Laurel opened the discharge papers first. She read them and frowned.

  “What’s up?” asked Wallace.

  “These are for a general discharge.”

  “So?”

  “A Marine with his number of kills should have received an honorary discharge for meritorious service. A general discharge doesn’t fit with his tattoo.”

  “The tattoo also showed a large number of revenge kills,” said Wallace. “Maybe they weren’t all by the book.”

  Laurel shook her head. “If he stepped over the line, he would have been court marshaled and received a dishonorable discharge upon release from prison. He would never have been allowed to work for Border Patrol or any other government office. Even McDonald’s wouldn’t hire him as they’re a government supplier.”

  “So the papers don’t fit the man,” said Wallace.

  “Not even close,” said Laurel.

  Next, Laurel laid the two photographs on the table. The first one showed a small platoon of twenty-five young men. They were posed in full artillery gear against a background of desolate sand. All the men were scowling fiercely for the camera, but twenty of the faces were marked by a red X.

  Wallace tapped the photograph. “The guard had at least that number of crosses on his back.”

  “Morbid keepsake,” said Laurel. “You’d think he’d want to remember what his friends were like when they were alive. This looks more like a countdown. The X creeping closer to his own death.”

  The second photograph showed a smaller unit of only a half-dozen men gathered around an armored Humvee. The guard was standing
by the rear tailgate with sleeves rolled up, muscles glistening, a big-ass gun in his hand. He was smiling, and unlike the pantomime warrior scowl of the other photo, this was a smile of pure joy. He was truly happy to be where he was.

  “Like I said before,” said Laurel as she studied the photograph, “men like him don’t quit. He loved being a Marine. He lived and breathed, ate and shit being a Marine. Trust me, I met lots of them. The Corps meant everything to him.”

  “Witnessing that much death could change a man,” said Wallace.

  Laurel shook her head. “Not a killer like him. Death just reinforces his beliefs. If anything, it makes him stronger, deadlier.”

  “Christ,” said Wallace wearily. “How did I come to cross his path?”

  Laurel opened the first of the newspaper clippings and began to read. They were reports from Afghanistan and Iraq with most of them mentioning casualties from landmines and ambush. But like most articles concerning the war that made their way into the mainstream press, they were so light on details you could practically see the government censors’ red pen.

  The most recent articles were at the bottom of the pile. Laurel showed one Washington Post clipping to Wallace.

  BAGHDAD, April 26 — Five American soldiers were killed in a roadside ambush Saturday in Iraq, but a report that three soldiers were also taken captive has been denied by the U.S. military.

  The five soldiers were killed during routine patrol outside the volatile northern city of Mosul, the military said in a statement.

  An Iraqi police lieutenant-colonel in Mosul, who declined to be named, said he had received reports that al Qaeda rebels captured three American soldiers during the attack.

  In Washington, a Marine Corps spokesman at the Pentagon denied the claim.

  “We take such allegations very seriously,” said Maj. Douglas Armstrong. “But nothing has been substantiated at this time. We’re mourning our dead and continuing our investigation.”

  Mosul and the surrounding Nineveh province are the last remaining bastion of al Qaeda and other Sunni Arab insurgent groups.

  The soldiers names were withheld pending notification of their families, officials said.

  “The last cluster on the guard’s back had six crosses,” said Wallace. “This report says five were killed.”

  Laurel handed him the next clipping. It was shorter than the first.

  WASHINGTON, May 2 — Two captive American soldiers were rescued from an al Qaeda encampment in Hamam al-Alil on Friday, the U.S. military said.

  “An elite squad raided the encampment shortly before dawn,” said Maj. Derek Chang, a spokesman for the U.S. military in Mosul and surrounding Nineveh province.

  “Initial reports have verified the classified operation was a complete success.”

  Maj. Chang was unavailable to elaborate on how these soldiers came to be in the hands of al Qaeda. All calls to the Pentagon were also met with a refusal to comment.

  “Two were rescued,” said Laurel. “That leaves one from the initial three unaccounted for.”

  “So the mission wasn’t a complete success,” added Wallace.

  Laurel picked up the discharge papers and looked at the date.

  “Desmond Morris received his discharge papers six weeks later.”

  “Which means what?” asked Wallace.

  “I would guess some kind of cover-up,” said Laurel. “I don’t think that rescue mission was authorized. The military doesn’t usually downplay its successes. Daring rescues are a recruiter’s wet dream. Desmond and what was left of his unit must have gone rogue. In doing so they rescued two of their men, but probably cost the life of the unmentioned third. The military couldn’t let them get away with disobeying orders, but at the same time they would have admired the bravado of the mission. How could they admit they didn’t have the balls to launch a rescue for their own men? It probably seemed best to have the offending soldiers kicked out on a general discharge instead of a public court martial and the brig.”

  Wallace rubbed his face in his hands. “OK, so he’s a disgraced hero. How does that help us?”

  Laurel held up the group photo. “We now know who he would lay down his life for and refuse to name under torture. When it came to backs against the wall, it wasn’t his country or the Corps. It was his unit. We just need names.”

  “You can find them?” asked Wallace.

  Laurel’s mouth twitched and her eyes hardened in concentration. “I think so. All five of these men were likely discharged at the same time, probably the same day. I’ll make some calls. I still know people who owe me favors.”

  “What can I do?” asked Wallace.

  Laurel’s eyes softened again.

  “Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll wake you when I have what we need.”

  “Maybe I should make coffee,” Wallace suggested.

  Laurel placed a hand on his arm and squeezed.

  “Try and get some sleep,” she said. “You’ve lost blood and you’ll need your strength. Trust me.”

  Wallace didn’t think sleep was possible as he grudgingly made his way into the living room. The wood-burning fireplace against the outside wall was cold and empty. In the place of a roaring fire, Laurel had placed a small electric heater in the hearth. Its three coiled-wire bars glowed red and gave off just enough heat to combat the chill.

  Wallace laid down on an old threadbare couch near the fire and pulled a woolen blanket up to his neck.

  His eyelids had barely brushed each other before he was asleep.

  CHAPTER 48

  The private five-acre parcel crowned the summit of a steep hill within a mile of the Pacific Ocean. A partially-constructed, two-story house sat in the middle, surrounded on three sides by dense clusters of windswept and rain-battered cedar.

  The fourth side had been logged a quarter way down the hillside to open up the spectacular westerly view. The logs, Mr. Black knew, had been milled on-site and used to build the house. Two benefits in one.

  On Mr. Black’s cellphone, the satellite image of the clearing resembled an old-fashioned keyhole.

  The house’s sprawling front deck was designed for lazy afternoons. A place to settle into your favorite Adirondack chair, share a drink with a lover or friend and take the time to absorb the sheer majesty of nature’s ever-changing canvas. From this vantage point, panoramic sunsets, more spellbinding than any Fourth of July fireworks, were enough to make even a devout atheist believe in God.

  Today, however, the ocean was invisible beneath a heavy blanket of fog.

  As the vehicle crested the hill and bounced along a slippery dirt road in four-wheel drive, a cold dampness splattered the Lincoln’s windshield like fat, skinless bugs. Behind the wipers, Mr. Black studied the house.

  It was definitely in worse shape than on his previous visit, a mere eight months before.

  The main floor showed the concern and attention to detail that its owner had planned to lavish on the whole structure. The lower half was finished in natural red cedar with large picture windows and matching trim. Anchored beneath every window was a cedar flowerbox so that from inside the house, no room would be missing the sight of nature’s ever-changing color and ever-lasting life.

  The owner had completed the ground-level first, so that he and his family had a place to live while he worked on the upper floor.

  The construction was solid, but now the flowerboxes sat empty, unattended and barren.

  The entire second story of the home was unfinished. Bare, unprotected walls were grey with damp and streaked with menacing fingers of black and green mold. Large holes covered in rotting particle board marked where additional windows and sliding glass doors had been intended to be installed.

  The ribs of an upper deck, offering an even superior view to the lower, protruded from the walls. But they were simply rough beams with no supporting slats to allow anyone to stand or sit.

  Mr. Black shook his head. Too much time had passed. The whole floor would have to be stripped back t
o its studs and started again. Even that might not be enough if the damp had seeped down to the lower quarters.

  What a waste.

  He parked the Lincoln beside a burgundy clone that sat in front of the framed skeleton of what had once promised to be a detached double garage. Without a roof, the garage couldn’t even keep off the rain.

  When he climbed out, the screen door at the rear of the house clattered with the wind. Loose. Unsecured.

  The owner must have been watching him drive up, but didn’t bother to wait and make sure he was alone.

  Mr. Black shook his head again. In the sand, the man had been paranoid about security. It was one of the things he admired most. Locks and bolts and a well-oiled gun. Lessons of survival. Lessons to live by.

  Mr. Black stomped up a small flight of wooden stairs. Blistered paint flecked off under his boots to expose rot underneath. He scraped the mud off his soles on a jagged metal grate anchored to the top step and opened the door.

  Sgt. Douglas Gallagher sat at a round kitchen table with a mug of coffee cradled in his distinctive right hand. The middle finger had been severed at the second knuckle; the ring finger beside it, at the first; the pinkie was missing entirely.

  “Fuckers missed the most important one,” said Gallagher when Mr. Black first found him. His hand was bloody and raw with stark white bone jutting from ripped flesh. He wiggled his trigger finger. “Give me a fucking gun.”

  Gallagher’s left hand was out of sight under the table, but his arm was moving restlessly back and forth, giving his nether regions a nervous scratch.

  Mr. Black barely recognized him. He had lost too much weight. His hair was thinning in an odd, clump-like pattern and had turned a shade closer to puddle grey than the smooth coal black he was known for. His face was puffy, retaining water, the skin riddled with an unhealthy pallor.

  Mr. Black sniffed the air; tasted a sour whiskey tang.