No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  Mr. Black frowned, relaxed his grip on his curved knife, and peered back down into the well. Gallagher’s flashlight beam was moving across the walls in a random, useless pattern.

  Something glistened and was gone.

  It had looked like—

  “Go back,” said Mr. Black.

  “What?”

  “Move your flashlight back to the left. I saw something.”

  Gallagher swung the beam across the slippery stone wall.

  “There,” said Mr. Black.

  Gallagher froze in place, his light illuminating a crack in the wall where several large stones had been pulled out to form a narrow ledge.

  Two small boys were huddled in a cramped crevasse that looked barely large enough for one. They were pale and frail, frightened and starved. The cold and damp had sapped their strength to the point where they barely had the strength to shield their eyes from the flashlight’s brutal white glare.

  “Resilient little buggers,” said Gallagher. “I wasn’t sure they’d survive.”

  And, thought Mr. Black, wouldn’t that have been for the best?

  CHAPTER 55

  Wallace took a step back from the couch and wiped a sheen of nervous sweat from his face. He moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to get rid of a bad taste.

  It still didn’t make sense.

  “How did I kill this man’s family?” he asked.

  “How?” Ronson blurted. “Fuck me! You have to know that.”

  “Pretend I don’t,” Wallace snapped. His voice was sharp and hard and tinged with violence. At the same time, his finger quivered above the trigger, so close it could easily slip. A simple spasm; an accidental twitch.

  Ronson gulped and a wash of panic rippled in a wave from forehead to chin. He glanced to the side table where his pipe had been smashed to powder.

  “Mm-maybe we could have a drink? I’ve got—”

  Wallace lashed out with his foot, sending the small table crashing into the wall.

  Ronson winced. “OK. OK. It was a bus crash. Last year in Canada.” He looked up at Wallace. “You were driving the bus, right? Gallagher showed me—”

  “What?” Wallace practically snarled. “What did he show you?”

  “Photos. Clippings from the newspaper. There was one of the crash on the bridge and another of you receiving some medal from the mayor. Christ, all the medals stripped from us, how you—”

  “Did you read it?” asked Wallace.

  “The story. Uh, no. But Gallagher told us exact—”

  “FUCK!”

  Wallace spun the shotgun around in his hands and slammed the butt into the wall above Ronson’s head. Brittle chunks of plaster sprayed over the seated man as the gun smashed through to the studs. Smaller chunks littered the air as Wallace yanked the gun out of the hole and spun it back around.

  The muzzle was aimed at Ronson again and Wallace’s finger trembled as though fighting an overwhelming urge for carnage.

  Ronson held up his hands. Chalky dust stuck to the sweat beading his forehead and the twin trails of blood dripping from his nose.

  “Look . . .” He tried to sound calm despite the tremor in his voice. “I know it was probably an accident. Fuck, if I don’t know about that . . . but Gallagher went through a lot in the sand and he didn’t adjust too well to being back home. Not that it was easy on any of us, especially with the Corps turning its back, but hell . . . his wife and daughter were everything to him, man. He was trying to adjust, trying to win them back, and then you—”

  “Win them back?” said Wallace. He shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet.

  “Yeah. Carly left him. Said she couldn’t live with his moods anymore. Took their daughter, Katie, with her. If Gallagher was dark before she left, Christ, he really plummeted after. The Sarge was always a scary motherfucker, but . . . anyway, he had his old unit track her down. We didn’t know she had gone to Canada until, well . . . Bone found her, but by then it was too late . . .”

  Ronson let the rest of the sentence drift, as if sensing that Wallace was no longer listening. The shotgun barrel had slowly tilted down, aiming away from his face to hover at the center of the scar-tissue grid that marked his ruined stomach.

  WALLACE STARED out the living room window, his focus adrift. He had forgotten to draw the curtains. How could he have been so careless? He saw his own face reflected in the glass.

  The fear in his eyes reminded him of the woman. Her features had been sharp, almost skeletal, with high cheek bones above deep hollows; plump, determined lips; and a prominent, almost-mannish chin. In photographs, she likely would have been stunning. In person, however, it took a sprinkle of light freckles across the bridge of her nose to soften the effect and elicit any sense of vulnerability.

  Her hair was auburn and fell away from her face in tendrils, reaching past the broken glass, dangling towards the watery abyss . . .

  Wallace blinked, not wanting to remember, but unable to shake the morbid hold the memory had on him.

  The woman’s daughter was also thin, but not to the same anemic degree. She had darker hair and a rounder face, but like her mother, she possessed amazingly large and expressive eyes.

  As they dangled over the edge of the bridge — steel cables snapping, glass popping, metal twisting and groaning with their crushed car miraculously and tentatively locked in the bus’s front bike carrier — both sets of eyes were focused entirely on him.

  Pleading.

  Despite the blood. Despite his injuries. He was their world. Their only hope.

  And he had been terrified.

  WALLACE BLINKED again. For a moment he was unsure of what was memory and what was real.

  A shadow moved beyond the window.

  A figure approaching.

  Running.

  Fast.

  “Fuck!”

  Wallace pivoted with the shotgun tight against his shoulder as the front door was flung open.

  “Don’t shoot,” called a familiar voice.

  Ronson looked up from the couch in confusion as Wallace instantly lowered his weapon.

  Crow poked his head around the corner and Wallace felt his heart swell with gratitude and relief. His friend’s face was bruised and swollen, but the damage did nothing to diminish the size of his grin.

  When Crow stepped into the room, he had a Defender shotgun cradled in one arm.

  “Sorry to burst in like this,” he said. He held up a glowing mobile phone in his free hand. “But it’s for you.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Mr. Black anchored his feet on either side of the well, gripped the nylon rope tightly in both hands, and descended into darkness. When his right foot slipped over the crevasse and found purchase on the narrow ledge, he was able to stop.

  He squatted down and peered between his bent knees at the two boys. At first glance, they didn’t look much like brothers. The younger one had ginger hair and a mass of freckles that covered forehead, nose and cheeks as though a jar of peanut butter had exploded through a colander. The slender nose and bright eyes, however, clearly showed which parent he favored.

  The older one had dark hair, large protruding ears and a longer, more adult face. It was a face he still needed to grow into. And despite being just as terrified as his brother, his small hands were curled into protective, fight-ready fists. Like father, like son.

  Mr. Black didn’t know how to look unthreatening and he imagined his fierce coal-black face was exactly what little white boys feared most of finding in the dark.

  He smiled, but that elicited a squeal of fright from the younger one.

  “M-m-make him g-g-go away.” The younger boy buried his face in his older brother’s chest.

  “If I go away,” said Mr. Black, “you’ll die down here. Both of you. In the dark and the wet and the cold. Do you want that?”

  The older brother attempted to lift his chin and steel his gaze, but fear made his lower lip quiver and courage lost its way in the inky folds of Mr. B
lack’s shirt.

  “We want to go home.” His voice barely reached a whisper.

  “Only one way to do that.” Mr. Black glanced skyward. “You must rise.”

  The older brother gulped and lifted his gaze slightly higher, but he still fell short of Mr. Black’s stare. “How can we trust you?”

  “I haven’t said anything about trust,” said Mr. Black. “But I will make you a promise.”

  The younger brother lifted his face. “W-w-what’s th-th-that?”

  Mr. Black inexplicably smiled wider, but the exposure of that many shiny white teeth made the young boy clamp his eyes shut and bury his face again.

  “Have you always stuttered?” Curious. A flicker of memory; the smell of smoke and burning children.

  “It’s getting better,” said the older brother. His voice had become less tremulous, like the first flutter of a hatchling’s wing. Not yet strong enough to fly and yet tempted by the possibility. “Fred goes to a speech therapist after school.”

  Mr. Black cocked his head to one side and sized up the older boy. Despite everything, he still had fight. Perhaps he took after his mother after all.

  The younger boy, Fred, opened his eyes again. “Wh-wh-wh-wh . . .” His face turned red, but he couldn’t get the words out.

  “He wants to know what your promise is?” said the older boy.

  Mr. Black cocked his head to the other side. “How do you know that’s what he wanted to ask?”

  “Because I want to know, too.”

  “And will you believe me?”

  “If you promise.”

  Mr. Black straightened his legs and swung away so that his head and upper torso vanished from the cone of artificial light being shone from above. In the darkness, he ground his teeth and refocused his energy. His curiosity about the children was unhealthy. Their trust and naivety stirred an anger that constricted blood vessels and made his head start to pound. He inhaled deeply. Remembered who he was. The shadow. The ghost. The killer.

  He bent his knees and dipped back into the light.

  “I promise to take you and your brother out of this dark place. Nothing more.” He didn’t smile or attempt any expression of friendliness. “I can take one at a time.”

  “Take Fred,” said the older boy. “I can wait.”

  Mr. Black snarled at the growing bravery in the boy’s voice. He swung in close until his face was inches from the boy’s alarmingly large eyes.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he growled. “I made a promise to get you out of the hole. That’s where the pact ends. Understand?”

  The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll wait here,” he repeated in a shakier voice.

  “Yeah,” said Mr. Black. “Like you’ve got a choice.”

  The younger boy screamed hysterically as Mr. Black snatched him off the shelf, threw him on his back, and climbed the rope.

  WHEN THEY broke the surface, Gallagher grabbed hold of the boy and untangled his rigidly locked arms from around Mr. Black’s neck.

  “What kept you? It sounded like a bloody U.N. debate down there.”

  “They’re alive, aren’t they?” said Mr. Black.

  “So?”

  “They’d be less trouble dead, but more awkward to carry.”

  Gallagher snorted and tightened his grip on the squirming boy’s wrist. “Get the other one.”

  WHEN BOTH boys were finally out of the well, Gallagher and Mr. Black headed back to the house. They were only halfway across the clearing when the woman burst through the kitchen door and came running towards them.

  The boys saw her and instantly transformed into squirming, mewling vermin with jagged teeth and sharp, dirt-encrusted nails.

  Gallagher cried out in pain and let the younger boy go.

  “Little prick bit me,” he snarled.

  Mr. Black held onto his captive for a short while longer, just to prove a point, before finally relenting.

  The boys ran across the muddy yard at breakneck speed before tumbling into their mother’s waiting embrace.

  Mr. Black turned to Gallagher.

  “What are you planning to do with them?”

  “Not me,” said Gallagher. “You.”

  Mr. Black slid his tongue across his teeth in an attempt not to show his true reaction.

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Take them to Canada,” said Gallagher. “Drop them at that friend of Wallace’s. The Indian.”

  Mr. Black was puzzled. He hadn’t told Gallagher about his encounter with Crow.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’ll draw Wallace back there pronto. Once he’s across the border, you’ll tip the cops and that’ll end this.”

  “End it?”

  Gallagher grinned. “The Mounties are looking for a man who may have killed his family and dumped the bodies, right? We give them two of the bodies. Only they’re stored in the basement of his best friend’s house.” Gallagher laughed. “Let Wallace explain his way out of that one.”

  Understanding dawned.

  “You don’t want the boys alive.”

  “Fuck, no,” said Gallagher. “Like you said, they’re less trouble dead. Be as messy as you like.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Wallace was dumbfounded as he accepted the phone from Crow and placed it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Wallace? It’s Delilah.”

  “Delilah?”

  At the mention of his wife’s name, Crow winked at Wallace and snapped the shotgun to his shoulder. He pointed it unwaveringly at Ronson.

  “Is everything alright?” Wallace asked in a panic.

  “We’re fine,” said Delilah, “but listen. Alicia posted an update to her Facebook page.”

  “When?”

  “Within the last half hour.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.” Delilah became flustered and her voice rose in pitch. “It doesn’t tell me—”

  “OK,” Wallace blurted, angry at himself for the question. “What did she say?”

  “It’s kinda strange. Here, I’ll read it out: ‘SOS. SOS. High hill. Ocean visible. Trees. 2 men. Military? Afraid. Name Douglas. Boys are—’ That’s where it ends. She must have been interrupted.”

  Wallace’s head spun and the locking ability of his knee joints suddenly began to fail. He shoved the phone at Crow before staggering to the corner and dropping into an old armchair. His stomach churned as he buried his face in his hands and allowed tears to flow unabashedly.

  S.O.S.

  Save Our Souls.

  Alicia and the boys were still alive.

  Thank God.

  “YOU OKAY?” asked Crow.

  Wallace looked up and wiped his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just a relief to know she’s still fighting, that we’re not too late.” His voice broke and he struggled to get the words out. “All this time, I didn’t know.”

  “How could you?” said Crow. “Nobody else even believed you.”

  Wallace looked up through puffy eyelids. “You did.”

  Crow shrugged. “Even then, I could’ve done more.”

  Wallace shook off the suggestion. “I wouldn’t be this close without your help. Laurel only trusted me because you did.”

  Crow smiled at the mention of Laurel’s name. “She’s a hell of a woman, ain’t she? Hope my girls turn out as good as she has.”

  There was a hint of sadness in his friend’s voice that troubled Wallace. Almost as though he thought he might not be returning home to watch his daughters grow.

  “They will,” said Wallace. “They’re being raised by two of the best people I know.”

  CROW SLIPPED the phone into his pocket. When his gaze returned to Wallace, his smile was gone and his tone had returned to business.

  “I had Delilah read Alicia’s message back to me. She only mentions two men.” His voice became iron. “We can take them.”

  Wallace drew on his friend’s strength. He wiped at his face again, took seve
ral deep breaths and stood up.

  “OK.” He tried to sound strong. “I’m ready.”

  They turned their attention to Ronson who hadn’t moved an inch from his spot on the couch. His eyes darted around the room at a frantic pace and his tongue slithered across his lips like a serpent.

  “Is Gallagher’s place on a hill overlooking the ocean?” Wallace asked.

  Ronson gulped and nodded.

  “Do you know how to get there?”

  Ronson shrugged. “I’ve been up once when he was first starting to build. Most of the time when he wants something, he just calls or—”

  “Who’s the second man?” interrupted Crow.

  Ronson sucked air through his teeth. “Probably Bone.”

  “Tennyson Bone,” said Wallace, remembering the computer print-outs. “A tall black man? Shaved head?”

  “Yeah,” said Ronson. “That’s him.”

  Wallace caught Crow’s eye. “You talked to Laurel?”

  “That’s how I found you.”

  “If this Bone character is the same one who surprised us at the guard’s house, they probably have that blond bastard with them, too. He’s injured, but still . . . that makes three.”

  Crow didn’t blink. “I still like our odds. This black man and I have unfinished business.”

  Wallace turned, curious. “Why’s that?”

  “He killed JoeJoe and put me in hospital for a short while.”

  “Christ,” said Wallace. “Why?”

  Crow’s eyes glistened. “He was looking for you.”

  Wallace cringed and his face turned pale. “God, Crow, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault, but I aim to make him pay.” Crow turned his attention to Ronson. “And you’re going to help.”

  Ronson threw up his hands in frustration. “I only set up the phones, man. I didn’t get involved in any revenge shit, but you don’t want to mess with Gallagher. He’s the bravest motherfucker I ever served un—”