No Cry For Help (13 page)

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, too.”

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.

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.