Authors: Grant McKenzie
CHAPTER 12
Driving one-handed in the dark, Crow wiped breakfast crumbs off the front of his shirt and then unclipped a three-inch folding knife from his belt.
He handed the knife to Wallace.
“Not to criticize your fashion sense,” he said, “but maybe you could trim the ends of those bags. My cousins already think white men are strange. They don’t need any more encouragement.”
Wallace accepted the knife, unclipped his seatbelt and leaned down to trim the vibrant yellow plastic bags that stuck out from his wet shoes to flare around his ankles.
“It was a clever idea,” he said. “My feet are still dry.”
“Just don’t tell Delilah,” said Crow. “She’s always stuffing black garbage bags in my glovebox in case I have to change a tire in the rain. If you encourage her, she’ll have me trading my old hip waders for a pair of leaf bags.”
“Those waders do have a distinct stench to them,” said Wallace.
“Don’t you start,” said Crow. “It’s that hard-earned musk that makes the fish take the bait. You ever see me come home without a catch?” He answered his own question. “Never.”
Wallace finished trimming the plastic bags and handed back the knife. Crow clipped it to his belt.
The traffic light in front of them turned red, but Crow didn’t slow down. Traffic was non-existent as the sun had yet to rise. As he drove through the four-way intersection, Crow glanced in the rearview mirror and checked both side mirrors.
“No flashing lights,” he said casually. “That’s something.”
“You expecting Marvin and the Mounties?” Wallace asked.
“Marvin’s a keener,” said Crow. “Could be dangerous. Especially where we’re going.”
“Your cousins don’t get along?”
Crow smiled. “Two different paths. You haven’t met this cousin before. He’s a big believer in the old ways. In their day, the Squamish people had a purpose for everyone. Unlike the white men, the band didn’t try to mold and shape people into what they needed. Instead, tasks were given based on a person’s natural abilities. There were the chiefs, the elders, the warriors
—”
“Bus drivers,” said Wallace.
Crow grinned wider, but continued with his story. “Some of these warriors, by today’s standards, would have been called psychopaths. There are tales passed down that still give children nightmares. Food was scarce in the winter and we were a warlike race, so there was a place for these men. They earned everyone’s respect.”
“And this cousin we’re going to see,” said Wallace. “He’s a respected man?”
“Very much so,” said Crow.
TWO MILES
later, the main road came to an abrupt end at the base of the rugged North Shore Mountains. Behind them, the sprawling residential neighborhoods of North Vancouver reached all the way to the bustling maritime shores of Burrard Inlet. Ahead lay the dense forested slopes that formed the southernmost grouping of the vast Coast Mountains.
The road formed a T-junction, but instead of turning either left or right, Crow engaged the truck’s four-wheel drive and kept going straight.
The truck bounced and swayed as it descended into a steep ditch, climbed out the other side and crashed through a weedy copse of brush and small trees.
Wallace held onto the truck’s door handle to stop his head from smashing into the roof with every bone-jarring bump.
“You sure you know where you’re going?” he asked.
Crow shrugged. “My cousins change the route all the time to allow new foliage to grow, but this is the only path I know.”
“Must make mail delivery a bitch,” said Wallace.
Crow grinned. “We use smoke signals. Much easier.”
After the truck bounced through another small grouping of trees, the ground leveled out slightly into two shallow ruts that resembled the off-road trails enjoyed by recreational quad-bikes. Crow attempted to increase his speed, but the truck shuddered in protest.
“I thought your people were fishermen.” Wallace was gripping the door with both hands and his face had taken on a sickly green hue. Even if his body hadn’t already been tender, the ride would have been rough. “Flat land. Cool streams.”
“Hunters, too,” said Crow. His face was alight, enjoying every bump. “Whatever it takes to survive.”
The ruts followed the mountainous terrain and used a series of nausea-inducing switchbacks to climb to higher elevations. The truck’s headlights could only illuminate a short distance through the thick foliage and Wallace fought a sickening dread in the pit of his stomach that the trail would lead them right over the edge of a cliff.
Finally the ruts converged with a slightly wider, hard-packed mud road that led through a tunnel of pine, fir and cedar to an unexpected tubular-steel gate. The heavy gate looked solid enough to stop most vehicles smaller than a Leopard tank, and the heavy forest on either side made driving around it impossible.
“Slide over and take the wheel,” said Crow. “I’ll get the gate.”
“Stay there. I can get it.”
Wallace moved to open his door, but Crow grabbed his arm to stop him.
“You can’t,” he said. “Trust me.”
Crow opened his door and climbed out, while inside the cab, Wallace slid over into the driver’s seat. The sun was just beginning to rise, turning the sky an impressive shade of red. Crow walked to the gate, stopped and held up one hand at shoulder level. He waited silently.
Wallace attempted to peer through the gloom ahead to see what or who Crow was waiting for, but the trees were too thick and the light too dim. He couldn’t see a thing.
After several seconds, Crow lowered his hand and punched a combination into a keypad on the gate’s handle. It appeared to take some shoulder grease to lift the heavy bar out of the ground, but Crow soon had the gate pushed open wide enough to allow the truck access.
After Wallace drove through, Crow relocked the gate and returned to the truck. Wallace slid over to the passenger side as Crow climbed back inside.
“What were you waiting for out there?” asked Wallace. “I couldn’t see a thing.”
“Just making sure we were still welcome.”
“And how did you know?”
Crow shrugged. “They didn’t shoot me.”
THE TRUCK
bounced into a small clearing and came to a stop in the middle of a rough circle surrounded by a series of raised wooden huts. It was too dark and too sheltered for Wallace to make out the size of each hut, but some appeared to be for living, while others seemed large enough to be used as warehouses.
Wallace went to open his door, but jumped back when a pair of glowing green eyes appeared at his window.
The owner of the eyes laughed loudly before removing a pair of night-vision goggles. He looked like a younger version of Crow. Same incredibly deep-set eyes, strong nose and sharp cheek bones that threatened to slice through a skin as smooth and supple as tanned leather. Unlike Crow, however, this younger version lacked the bulk to handle the weight of such features. His face had matured before his body caught up.
The young man was dressed in camouflage army fatigues and had a large, semi-automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Unlike a regulation soldier, however, his thick hair was pulled into a luxurious ponytail that reached to the middle of his back. A wide blood-red headband wrapped around his forehead completed the look.
Still laughing, the young man opened Wallace’s door.
“Should’ve seen your face, dude,” he said. “Priceless.”
He sounded about as Native as Keanu Reeves from the
Bill & Ted
movies.
Crow walked around the truck and slapped the younger man on the shoulder. He looked in at Wallace.
“This is my young cousin. Everyone calls him JoeJoe.”
“’Cause my first and last name is Joe,” said JoeJoe. “Lazy ass parents, what can I say?”
“Joe Joe?” said Wallace.
“You got it, dude.”
Crow squeezed his cousin’s shoulder. “Is your brother ready for us?”
“Yeah, dude, I’m to take you straight there. I’m told this ain’t a social call.”
Crow lowered his voice. “What name is he using now?”
JoeJoe rolled his eyes. “Cheveyo. It’s Hopi and means ‘spirit warrior’ or something. I don’t get it, we’re not Hopi.”
Crow shrugged. “Basil doesn’t exactly inspire fear. You ever think of taking a new name?”
JoeJoe grinned. “Bro threatened to call me Teetonka, which is Sioux for ‘talks too much.’ But what a mouthful. Nah, I’ll stick with what I got.”
Wallace climbed out of the truck and JoeJoe quickly led the way to one of the smaller huts. A thin column of fragrant wood smoke rose from the chimney and an armed bodyguard stood outside the door.
The guard was the size and shape of a shaved bull and even without the semi-automatic rifle clutched in his hands, he was an intimidating sight.
He moved to block Wallace’s progress.
“He’s with me,” said Crow.
The guard moved his massive head from left to right. Once. “Cheveyo sees you alone.”
Crow looked at Wallace apologetically.
Wallace shrugged. “Must be my shoes.”
CHAPTER
13
Mr. Black sat in his vehicle at the base of the North Shore Mountains and studied the stationary red dot on his phone’s screen. It hadn’t moved in over twenty minutes and, according to the tracking data, it had stopped in the middle of unmapped territory.
He switched to satellite view and zoomed in on the dot’s location, but all he could see from space was the same thing he saw out his own windshield: trees. Lots and lots of trees.
Entering the forest in pursuit did not seem logical. He had no scouting reports and didn’t know what dangers may be concealed within the dense undergrowth. To make matters worse, according to the map there weren’t any roads that led to that location. Without local knowledge, it would be very easy to break an axle or worse on the rough terrain.
He smiled thinly and without warmth. Wallace was proving more unpredictable than expected.
After crossing the border, Wallace should have headed directly home. If he hadn’t foolishly crashed the van, Wallace could be in RCMP custody by now and trying to explain away the horror of a hastily covered crime scene.
Unfortunately, Wallace hadn’t even driven by.
Mr. Black studied the satellite map again. If Wallace had decided to hide out from the RCMP while he plotted his next move, he had chosen a good location. But without supplies, he couldn’t stay in the woods for long.
The decision was simple.
He would wait.
Mr. Black was very good at waiting.
CHAPTER
14
Delilah padded down the hallway to the front door in her fluffy housecoat and moccasins. Her eyes were puffy and her mouth was uncomfortably dry. She lifted her hand in front of her face and huffed. The rankness of her own breath made her cringe.
She needed toothpaste and coffee. Lots of coffee.
An impatient fist thudded against the door frame for a third time, causing her teeth to grind and a shiver of irritation to march down her spine. She tempered her annoyance with a note of caution. It was too early for church recruiters or foolhardy salesmen.
At least the doorbell was broken — one of Crow’s handyman I’ll-get-to-it-soon promises still lingering from last winter — or whoever was outside would likely be ringing that, too.
“Hold on,” she called out, trying not to raise her voice and wake the girls, “I’m coming.”
She felt more tired now than when she had first woken. Her conversation with Wallace and her fear for Alicia and the boys had made it impossible to fall back asleep after the men left. She kept getting up and checking on her sleeping girls.
Just to watch them breathe.
Just to be sure.
Delilah opened the door and glowered up at the man on her doorstep. He was surrounded by three others. All dressed the same. Hats and handguns.
Official, pompous and intimidating, they excreted testosterone. Which meant they weren’t there to deliver good news.
“Shit, Marvin,” she groaned. “You know what time it is?”
“Is Crow here?” asked Marvin.
Delilah blinked, then crinkled her nose playfully. “You sound all grown up when you get direct like that, Marvy. Your voice is kinda growly. It’s nice.”
Marvin’s cheeks reddened slightly.
“Is Crow here?” he repeated.
Delilah looked left and right before shaking her head. “He went out somewhere. Didn’t even leave a note.” She inhaled, her ample bosom straining against the soft, over-washed cloth, and let it out with a sigh. “Typical man.”
“Has Wallace been here?”
“Who?”
It was Marvin’s turn to sigh. “Wallace Carver. Your husband’s best friend.”
Delilah waved her hand dismissively. “Crow’s always making friends. All his passengers love him, you know? His regulars memorize his schedule just so they can get on his bus. He’s too damn sociable, I say.”
Marvin held up a piece of paper. “I have a warrant.”
“Uh-huh.” Delilah narrowed her eyes. “For what?”
“To search your house.”
“What for?”
“Wallace.”
Delilah straightened her shoulders and her voice turned screechy.
“You think I’m hiding a man under my bed while my husband is away, Marvin? Is that what you think of me?”
Marvin glanced at the three men standing impatiently behind him. He lowered his voice.
“We just want Wallace,” he said. “Hand him over and I’ll do my best to keep you and Crow out of it.”
Delilah sneered. “You wake my babies and I’ll have your badge. You ain’t coming in here.”
“We are,” said Marvin firmly. “We have a warrant.”
Delilah was shoved aside as the four RCMP constables moved past her and into the house.
“Don’t think I won’t tell your mother about this, Marvin. I’ll chew her bloody ear off.”
One of the constables sniggered, but Delilah couldn’t tell which one. They all looked the same in their black jackets, gold-striped pants and jangling belts stuffed with pepper spray, handcuffs and handguns.
As the constables entered the kitchen and small living room, Delilah headed down the hallway to her daughters’ room. Better she wake them than have the storm troopers do it. No sooner had she entered the girls’ shared bedroom when Marvin called from the kitchen.
“Delilah! What’s this?”
Delilah tried to think what they could have possibly found. And then it dawned on her. Crap.
She returned to the kitchen to see Marvin holding up a grubby pair of pants and a torn shirt that he had removed from the trash. Delilah had briefly considered washing them after Wallace left, but the crash had left large rips in both items of clothing. She threw them out instead.
“There’s blood on the shirt,” said Marvin.
“It’s Crow’s.” Delilah lowered her gaze, portraying embarrassment. “I haven’t been honest with you, Marvin.” She looked up with glistening, new-formed tears in her eyes. “This trouble with Wallace made Crow fall off the wagon. I don’t know what he got into, but he came home in those filthy, torn clothes and reeking of booze. I think he was wrestling a cougar in a ditch somewhere.”
Marvin shook his head slowly, not buying it.
“I saw Crow just a few hours ago. He was sober and clean.”
Delilah swallowed. “I wondered what it was that pushed him over the edge.” Her voice hardened and her eyes turned cruel. “You did this to him. One minute he was my husband and the next he was opening a bottle and running out the door.” Her voice rose in anger and her hands curled into fists. “Look at my face. Do I look like a woman who’s slept peacefully or one who’s been trying to wrestle her husband out of the goddamn bottle you drove him into?”
Marvin kept his composure, but the other constables stared at him. Unsure and unsettled.
“So where is he now?” said Marvin.
“I dragged him home, got him out of his clothes and into bed, but I must have dozed off. When I woke up, you were at my door and he was gone again. Thanks a lot.”
Marvin stared at Delilah. Hard. Penetrating. His mouth twisted and he shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Crow was never a good enough cowboy to escape your lasso. If you tied him down, he stayed tied down.” He passed the clothes to one of the other constables. “I’m taking these with us.”
Marvin turned to a second constable.
“Issue an alert on Crow’s truck. We find him, we find Wallace.”
Delilah tried to keep the emotion off her face, but it was too raw not to seep into her voice. “You’re making a mistake.”
“We’ll see,” said Marvin. “Once we have them in custody, we can talk further. But as of this moment, Crow is as much a wanted man as Wallace is.”
Delilah followed the constables to the front door. Marvin was the last to leave.
“I’m still going to tell your mother,” said Delilah.
Marvin hesitated and appeared about to turn around, but then he shook his head and kept walking.