No Cry For Help (11 page)

CHAPTER 27

Wallace dropped his bottle of water and refocused the binoculars. The blond guard was leaving the stalls and walking quickly toward the main building.

Wallace had earlier watched him answer his cellphone. Instead of lifting it to his ear, the guard had read its tiny screen.

Wallace only hoped it wasn’t a text message request to work overtime.

Holding his breath, Wallace waited in silence, his binoculars focused on the rear entrance to the customs office. After a few minutes, the guard reappeared. He was still in uniform, but had swapped his navy blue and white-lettered U.S. Customs and Border Protection jacket for a plain civilian number in black leather.

“This is it,” Wallace said, needing to hear a reassuring voice, even if it was his own.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Wallace kept the binoculars trained on the guard, watching as he made his way through the staff parking lot. Wallace didn’t move a muscle until he knew the make and model of the guard’s vehicle — then he exploded into action.

Grabbing the binoculars and shotgun, he quickly scrambled out from under the tarp, slammed the tailgate closed to trap the fabric, and climbed behind the wheel.

Dust and gravel flew from the rear tires as Wallace floored the accelerator, sending the truck flying across the empty parking lot, past the busy duty free, and onto 2
nd
Street. From there, his GPS showed it was a straight path to the D Street underpass.

It took less than two minutes to reach the onramp that connected with the freeway, but for those agonizing seconds Wallace was completely blind.

If the guard had turned into Blaine, Wallace would have missed him, but if he stuck to the interstate, heading south toward Bellingham, his bright orange Camaro muscle car with twin gunmetal gray sport stripes running down its hood and flank should be easy to spot.

Wallace took the onramp for the freeway and accelerated again.

HE NEEDN’T
have panicked. The Camaro appeared in front of him within moments and Wallace quickly snapped up the binoculars to confirm the blond guard was driving.

Satisfied, Wallace eased off the gas and followed at a comfortable distance. There were enough vehicles on the road to avoid suspicion and the car’s unique color made it easy to keep in sight.

As his tension eased, a chill shivered through his body. His skin was cold to the touch and his clothes were damp from lying in the back of the truck. He turned on the heater, absorbing its soothing warmth.

The simple act made him think again of his sons. He hoped they were somewhere warm and dry. Alicia, especially, hated the cold. Last winter she had even tried to convince him to join her at sweat yoga
— a program where bendy folks exercised in a steam room. It wasn’t for him, but Alicia loved it, despite what it did to her hair.

He smiled to himself. He loved her hair, especially in the mornings when it resembled a tumbleweed of copper wire and there was nothing she could do to tame it.

After twenty minutes, the Camaro left the interstate at Exit 539. Wallace grew silent and felt his stomach twist into a knot of eels as he glanced over his left shoulder toward the Bellis Fair Mall — the last place he had seen his family.

He tried to remember the last words he said to Alicia. The last expression on everyone’s face. They were happy. The boys had pocket money burning holes in their jeans, Alicia had visions of sale signs dancing in her head, and Wallace could already smell the sugary overdose of fresh cinnamon buns being removed from the oven.

It had felt so normal. So right.

And then. Just like that. It wasn’t.

The Camaro headed west and as Wallace followed, the busy mall fell behind. Wallace stared into his rearview mirror, his focus straining as he was suddenly overwhelmed by the irrational feeling that he should turn around and search again.

What if it had all been a mistake? What if Alicia and the boys were waiting inside, eating junk food and wondering where the heck he had run off to?

He shook away the feeling and focused on the task ahead. Driving in front of him was the only person who knew where his family could be found. And no matter how hard he wished it wasn’t so, he had to accept that.

CHAPTER
28

Crow opened his eyes and groaned. His body oozed pain as if it was one giant, tender bruise. His nose and the left side of his face was on fire, the skin torn and bloody and peppered with chunks of gravel from his forcible faceplant in the alley. He tried to move his arms, but they were pinned rigidly behind him.

He moved his head and surveyed his surroundings. He was in a home garage. Tied to a wooden chair. Tight, unforgiving rope around his ankles, wrists, lap and chest. A bare 60-watt bulb burned above his head.

The garage was dry-walled and showed signs of recent wear and tear, but apart from an old oil stain on the poured concrete floor it was empty. A collection of DIY wooden shelves anchored to the far wall were bare, no clutter, just cobwebs and dust.

The sound of running water came from behind. It made him want to pee.

The water stopped.

A whistle, previously hidden beneath the water noise. Soft, melodic. Frightening.

The shuffle of feet.

The whistling stopped.

The silence became even more frightening.

“Do you know why our president banned water boarding as a means of interrogation?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

Crow’s puffy eyes grew wide and he instinctively struggled against his bonds. Useless. Whoever tied them knew what he was doing.

“You can talk.” The unseen voice was calm, unthreatening. “We’re just chatting.”

Crow wanted to speak, to ask what the hell was going on and why this son-of-a-bitch had killed JoeJoe. But he feared that if he started, he might never be able to shut up again.

Instead, Crow stared straight ahead, his lips knit together in brave defiance.

“Water boarding,” continued the voice, “is so effective that trained CIA operatives who subjected themselves to the torture lasted, on average, fourteen seconds before caving. One report said that Al Qaeda’s toughest prisoner, Khalid Sheik Mohammed, won the admiration of his interrogators by lasting nearly two and a half minutes before begging to confess. Part of that is bullshit, of course. No American worth his salt would admire that terrorist son of a bitch no matter how long he lasted.”

Crow felt an uncomfortable tremor run through his body.

Warm breath tickled his ear and the voice said, “We’re about to get very intimate.”

Crow locked his jaw and stared straight ahead again.

“Fourteen seconds,” said the voice, “can be an eternity.”

Without warning, a sheet of Cellophane was pulled tight across Crow’s eyes and nose and his chair was tilted backwards to rest on a makeshift sawhorse. He stared up in wide-eyed disbelief at the unknown black man who had chased him down the alley. The man twisted the plastic into a knot behind Crow’s head so that he could hold it with one hand. With his other hand, he scooped a plastic pitcher out of the water-filled sink behind him.

“My name is Mr. Black,” said the stranger. He smiled. “I straightened your nose again, by the way. You’re welcome.” The smile dimmed. “Question number one. Where’s your friend Wallace?”

Crow tried to scream, but—

Mr. Black poured the water into his mouth and over top of the plastic in a continuous, unrelenting wave. Crow gagged as his body convulsed and his lungs fought with his stomach to crawl up his throat in desperation for air.

He was drowning on dry land and there was nothing he could do.

Before unconsciousness or death could claim him, the plastic was pulled away and air rushed into his lungs with such force he could barely contain it. He vomited and convulsed, his throat and chest burning with a series of wheezy coughs.

“That was eight seconds,” said Mr. Black. “Bet it felt longer.”

“P-please,” Crow gasped. “I don’t know what any of this is about. What do you want with Wallace?”

“My reasons are none of your concern.”

Mr. Black moved out of sight again.

“I’ll ask again. Where is Wallace?”

Before Crow had a chance to answer, the plastic wrap engulfed his face again and his chair was thrown backwards. He shook his head in frenzied panic, trying to ward off the oncoming assault, but it was too late. Mr. Black was already pouring the water.

CROW WAS
wracked with sobs as he swallowed air in lumpy chunks. His body was turned inside out, every nerve on fire, every muscle petrified and drained of fluid. It was as though his body had died, yet his brain remained alive just to feel unbearable pain.

Despite an incredible sense of shame, he told the man everything he knew. It really wasn’t much.

Mr. Black listened with an intensity that suggested he was weighing each spilled word to see if it held truth or lie. When Crow was finished, Mr. Black moved behind him and pulled the plug out of the sink. Crow heard the water gurgle down the drain, the sound filling him with relief.

“If I was a good man,” said Mr. Black, “I would make this quick.”

Crow strained his neck and tried to yell for help as a thick band of gray Duct Tape was sealed over his mouth.

Mr. Black moved in front of him and slipped a small, circular knife off his belt. As it caught the light, the knife resembled a tempered-steel claw from a giant mechanical bear. A hole in the grip was designed for the wielder’s thumb so that it fit comfortably in the hand with the two-inch blade curving upwards.

The lethal blade had a sharp point and serrated, diamond-cut edge and Crow knew exactly what it was for: skinning the tough hide off slain elk, moose and deer.

Crow’s own flesh would offer no resistance to the knife and he began to whine like a wounded dog. His whining exploded into a howling shriek as the cold blade touched his belly.

The first nip of penetration threatened to take him into blackness and his muffled shrieks grew in intensity until they were suddenly accompanied by a piercing scream.

Crow tried to open his eyes, to focus on the source of the unexpected scream, but the fear and pain were too much.

His eyes rolled back in his head and blackness claimed him.

CHAPTER
29

The orange Camaro slowed and turned into a lazy maze of inner-city suburbia.

Unlike outlying suburbs where a design plan was put in place to make sure individual taste and identity was unable to flourish, here the staggered rows of homes were keenly mismatched. Squat bungalows with drafty ill-used lofts were nestled beside large family homes twice their size that had once overflowed with rambunctious lookalike children.

The lots were large and displayed their owners’ stubborn longevity with thick, old-growth vegetation, over-crowded gardens and stout wooden fences to afford a little privacy from being penned in on at least two sides.

At first glance, the neighborhood exuded a sense of community pride and prosperity, but a closer examination soon exposed the cracks of hard-working people living too long in one spot with an income headed in the wrong direction.

Patchy lawns needed reseeding, exterior walls ached for fresh paint, and clogged gutters and drainpipes struggled to keep a grip on tired, weather-weary roofs. It was a place where an injection of fresh blood and disposable income could do everyone good.

Wallace kept his distance, trying not to fall too far behind, but also nervous that he had now lost the cover of steady traffic.

Fortunately, the Camaro didn’t appear to notice. After all, Wallace reasoned, the guard had no reason to suspect he was being followed. As far as he was concerned, Wallace never was, and never would be, a problem.

Upon reaching a small community park, the Camaro made a quick turn without signaling and pulled to a stop beneath a canopy of tall, broad-leafed trees.

Caught off-guard, Wallace quickly pulled over to the curb and parked. Grabbing his binoculars, Wallace leapt out and rushed blindly across the road. His view of the Camaro was blocked by a two-story house on the corner, but he also used this to his advantage. The guard couldn’t see him either.

When Wallace reached the sidewalk, he hopped a small hedge, dashed across a short lawn and flattened himself against the house’s painted wood siding.

Puffing from the unexpected exertion, Wallace carefully peered around the corner. He didn’t need the binoculars. The Camaro was only two houses away.

The guard had parked in front of a quaint post-war bungalow that sat on a generously large treed lot. The location was surprisingly peaceful as the front of the house looked across the road onto a quiet, well-maintained park. The bungalow’s owner was in the middle of a major renovation and a large green dumpster in the driveway was filled with old drywall, roof shingles and rotted chunks of wood. A red wheelbarrow rested beside it, its latest load already dumped.

A new porch had recently been added to the front of the house to take advantage of the serene view. Not yet painted or stained, the fresh wood glistened like honey in the late-afternoon light.

Wallace watched the guard slide out of the Camaro and stretch his back as though he had just finished a grueling six-hour drive instead of a scant thirty minutes.

The door to the house opened and a slender man with a shaved head stepped onto the porch.

Wallace bit back a bitter growl that threatened to burst from his throat.

Detective Petersen.

He had been right. They were both in on it, which meant one of them had to know where his family was.

The guard’s lips curled into a thin smile as he walked up the garden path.

The detective met him halfway and immediately pulled him into a heavy liplock. The guard cut it short and quickly looked around as though embarrassed by the possibility of drawing attention.

The detective laughed, linked his arm with the muscle-bound guard and dragged him across the porch and inside the house.

Wallace froze the scene in his mind —
especially the laugh
— and used it to stoke an intense white-hot fire that burned deep within. He fanned the flames, encouraging it to turn any doubt or trepidation to ash. He glanced back towards the truck. At the various tools and implements within.

The inner voice returned. “We’ll get them to talk.”

“Hell,” Wallace snarled. “I’m ready to make them fucking scream.”