No Cry For Help (26 page)

CHAPTER 68

Wallace stood at the base of the stairs and looked up at the trapdoor.

“He could pick us off one by one,” said Crow. “It’s too narrow an opening for the both of us to go in at once.”

Wallace reached into his pocket and lifted out the white phosphorous grenade.

“This is too dangerous.”

He sighed and dropped the canister to the floor, but as he moved to kick it away, Crow stopped him by trapping it with his own foot.

“Maybe not,” said Crow. “We could ignite it in the back bedroom. He won’t stay up there if he thinks the house is going to burn down around him.”

“What about Fred?” asked Wallace.

“He’ll still need a hostage to leverage his escape,” Crow reasoned. “He won’t harm Fred until he’s no longer useful, but we stand a better chance of rescuing him out in the open.”

Despite the obvious danger, Wallace didn’t see any other option. He turned to Alicia who stood in the kitchen with Alex. Alex had his head buried in his mother’s stomach and Wallace felt his heart crack. His son should never have witnessed what he had to do in the kitchen.

“Hide in the woods,” said Wallace. “If it all goes to hell and this bastard gets past us, I want you to get out of here. Don’t stop. Steal a car and drive straight to Canada if you need to.”

Alicia opened her mouth to protest, but Wallace was one step ahead of her.

“You’ve already done your part,” he said to his wife. “You kept our sons alive for this long. I’ll get Fred, but you need to get Alex home where he belongs. I need you both safe.”

Alicia nodded and leaned down to whisper in Alex’s ear. After a moment, they both headed outside.

When they were gone, Crow picked up the grenade and headed down the hallway, past the bathroom, to the master bedroom.

“You ready?” he called.

Wallace stood back from the staircase, his shotgun leveled at the trapdoor. He nodded.

Crow pulled the pin and tossed the grenade into the room. He closed the door to keep the phosphorous contained and hurried back down the hall to join Wallace.

The grenade exploded with a deafening boom that splintered wood and shattered glass. Smoke leaked out of the buckled bedroom door, but it quickly headed for the ceiling.

Wallace wiped his brow as he concentrated on the trapdoor above.

“Aim for his knees or ankles,” said Crow in a whisper. “Your gun can take a leg or foot clean off. I’ll grab Fred and take him to safety, then we can scalp the motherfucker.”

Wallace gulped, but nodded his agreement.

They waited.

The smoke rose higher, thick and hot, stinging their eyes and scratching their throats. The crackling sound of burning could be heard from the bedroom and sweet wood smoke joined the chemical garlic stench of phosphorous.

A heavy thumping sounded above them, followed by the breaking of more wood. A clang of metal and then—

Two bullets pierced the trapdoor and chewed into the stairs, driving Wallace and Crow back a few paces. But the bullets weren’t aimed, the noise more than the lead serving as warning shots to keep away.

Wallace glanced at Crow. “He’s not coming down.”

“He will,” said Crow. “He’s not the kind of man to martyr himself.”

“The smoke’s too thick for Fred,” said Wallace. Panic thickened his throat. “He’ll be choking to death.”

“Patience. He’ll come.”

Wallace tried, but he couldn’t. His youngest son was in too much danger.

Gritting his teeth, Wallace broke rank and pounded up the stairs. Crow screamed at him to stop, but it was too late.

Wallace raised his left arm above his head and smashed through the trapdoor. The door crashed over on its side and Wallace immediately dived to the floor.

The room was thick with clawing smoke as Wallace rolled onto his stomach, desperately searching for the soldier’s feet.

Instead of feet, Wallace saw the smoke pouring out of a large hole in the wall where a sheet of rotten plywood had been torn from its anchors and tossed aside.

Yelling for Crow, Wallace ran to the hole. The smoke was too thick to see through. It was like standing in the middle of a toxic cloud with your shoes on fire.

Wallace had no choice.

He leapt out into a blanket of weightless air and plummeted like a stone.

CHAPTER 69

When he hit the soft ground, Wallace attempted a paratrooper roll, but he wasn’t a trained Marine. His knee smacked him on the chin, breaking two teeth, and his shotgun tore loose from his hand to vanish into a deep puddle of mud.

Roaring with a heady cocktail of anger, fear, pain and adrenaline, he spat out the broken teeth and scooped mud from his eyes just as—

Red taillights flashed a brief warning before the massive tailgate of a large SUV hurtled straight towards him.

Wallace didn’t have time to blink.

He threw himself back to the ground, desperately trying to bury himself deep in the mud as the SUV drove over him. He could feel the hair-singeing heat of the muffler and exhaust as it passed over his head, but the raised undercarriage and four huge tires missed him completely.

Wallace scrambled to his feet as the large black Lincoln pulled a smooth one-eighty and roared out of the clearing towards the road and escape.

He glanced to his left and spotted the second vehicle, nearly identical to the one the soldier was fleeing in. Praying the keys were in it, he ran to the red SUV and hopped inside. He was covered in so much mud, he had to quickly grab the door handle to stop from sliding off the seat.

The key was in the ignition.

Without waiting for Crow to catch up, Wallace threw the vehicle into gear and tore across the yard in hot pursuit.

The vehicle bounced and slid as he pressed the accelerator to the floor in a desperate attempt to close the gap. The soldier’s SUV had already left the clearing and vanished over the hill.

Wallace slammed his fist into the steering wheel, trying to coax more speed from the powerful vehicle. He hadn’t come this far only to lose one of his sons now.

Where the clearing met the road, the vehicle hit a deep trough and his head smashed against the ceiling so hard it made him see stars.

Grimacing in pain, Wallace glimpsed Alicia and Alex within the circle of floodlights. They were frozen in place, staring at his retreating vehicle. They still looked terrified, but at least they were safe. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Crow’s silhouette running from the burning house.

For them, the danger had fled. But, he swore to himself, it wouldn’t get far.

Wallace fishtailed around the first corner and felt his wheels leave the ground at every bump. The ground was wet and slippery, but he had driven buses through slick B.C. winters when every other vehicle was trapped in its own driveway. White-knuckle driving was his specialty. And he was damn good at it.

When the road made the first horseshoe turn of an S-shaped bend, Wallace caught a glimpse of the black SUV. It was only a short distance ahead.

He had closed the gap.

Slightly, but it was something.

He pressed his vehicle to its limit, praying that Fred had thought to fasten his seatbelt just as Alicia and he had always told him.

Please, he projected, have that belt on.

Wallace snapped on his own belt and took the last turn at breakneck speed. His vehicle practically slid around the curve on only two wheels
—

And then his heart stopped beating.

Time froze solid.

There was no air. No light.

No reason. No God.

Standing in the middle of the muddy road, directly in the path of his out-of-control vehicle, stood his son.

Fred was screaming. Frozen to the spot. His mouth opened wider than even seemed possible as his eyes bore witness to the onrushing glimpse of his own mortality.

Once again, Wallace was Death in the eyes of a terrified child.

He didn’t have time to curse or even think. Everything was reflex. All four limbs worked in tandem for one impossible move.

Wheel.

Brake.

Accelerator.

Handbrake.

And prayer.

More prayer than he had ever said in his lifetime, all compressed into three small words:
Let him live
.

The vehicle snapped to the side, its rear fishtailing wildly one way and then the other. Tires slipped and gripped and slipped again.

The huge SUV skimmed past the boy, barely ruffling his hair, before its momentum became too much to hold the road.

The vehicle flipped and rolled.

Inside, Wallace held on for dear life, knowing he had no reason to expect survival and perfectly willing to accept the consequence.

Both his sons were alive.

Alicia was safe.

Their lives in exchange for his was an easy deal to make.

The vehicle slammed onto its roof and was sucked deep into the mud, its velocity decreasing at an alarming rate. But then, as if found distasteful, the earth disgorged it again. This time the vehicle left the road and flew into the trees.

The forest was thick and deep. The vehicle smashed a brutal path before finally coming to a wheezing halt and collapsing in a nest of scraggly pine.

Metal hissed and cooled. Airbags wilted and flaky white dust settled over everything until all that was left was silence.

CHAPTER
70

Wallace sneezed and clutched at his neck. There wasn’t a single muscle that didn’t ache. The massive vehicle had taken one hell of a beating and yet its core integrity remained intact.

He wiped mud, cloying white dust and fresh blood away from his blurry eyes. A sudden movement outside the broken side window made his stomach lurch.

A large dark shadow was running towards him.

The shadow held a knife, long and sharp.

Wallace grabbed his seatbelt, desperately trying to break free. The mechanism was jammed.

He was unarmed, injured and trapped.

Something slammed into the driver’s door, but it refused to budge.

Wallace tensed, grimacing at the pain in his neck, and made a futile fist. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had left.

“Christ,” said Crow, panting heavily. “You gonna fight me, too?”

Wallace blinked his eyes into focus. Saw his best friend with a knife in his hand.

“I was going to cut you free,” said Crow. “Unless you’re fine where you are?”

Wallace grinned. Even the muscles in his face hurt.

“No,” he said. “Get me the hell out of here.”

After Crow cut the belt, he helped Wallace slide through the broken window and out into the cool, wet air. Both men sat on the ground, catching their breath, allowing time to restart.

“Alicia and the boys?” Wallace asked.

“Everyone’s okay,” said Crow. “I asked Alicia to keep the boys behind in case . . .” He paused and looked away.

“In case I was jello?” finished Wallace.

Crow turned back and grinned. “Something like that. Yeah.”

“Gallagher may have been a crazy fuck,” said Wallace. “But he had good taste in vehicles.”

“You okay to walk?” asked Crow. “You’ve got some anxious people waiting to see you.”

Wallace struggled to his feet, stumbled and reached out to grab onto Crow’s shoulder.

“I may still need some help,” he said weakly.

Crow wrapped an arm around Wallace’s waist and held him upright. “I’m here.”

Using his friend for support, Wallace limped out of the woods and into the waiting arms of his family.

CHAPTER
71

(FIVE DAYS LATER)

Mr. Black hadn’t been able to enter Desmond’s condo until the local police finally grew bored of 24-hour surveillance and moved on to more pressing matters.

Their interest had been his own fault, he knew. If he had disposed of the body rather than leaving it on display upon the dining room table, he would likely have only had to wait a day or two at most.

But still, Desmond had always enjoyed attention. Who was he to deny him one last show?

Mr. Black waited until it was dark, then slit the crime scene tape and broke the lock. The narrow house was eerily quiet as he crept up the first flight of stairs.

The living room, once so perfectly neat and sterile, looked as if it had hosted a teenage rave. The carpet was trampled, holes had been cut into the walls to remove interesting blood spatter, and messy fingerprint powder covered nearly every surface. All that was missing was discarded condom packets, broken plastic cups of juice and a stoned DJ with his finger glued to the repeat button.

Mr. Black returned to the stairs and climbed up to the master bedroom. It was in a similar state of dishevel, but it actually looked slightly tidier than after Wallace had ransacked it looking for . . .

Mr. Black paused.

He had never actually known what Wallace was after, but now he could guess. Desmond had left information around that led the drivers to Ronson, and Ronson led them to Gallagher.

He paused again.

Did either of those men have information that led to him? If so, he would need to visit the bus drivers again. Pity. He didn’t care for Canada and the crossing had become so tedious. Still, Gallagher had been good to him once. Perhaps he owed him this one last favor.

Two birds. One stone.

Mr. Black moved to the full-length mirror and pressed it with the tips of his gloved fingers. He had discovered in just the last few days that, like silk underwear, he enjoyed wearing gloves. They softened every sensation, made him feel less a part of the everyday world and more in touch with the only person who never let him down. Himself.

The mirror clicked and swung open.

The money was untouched.

A nice little bonus for a job well done.

He froze. A ripple in the air. Silent and yet
—

He turned around.

A large Indian stood in the doorway. Naked to the waist, his face and chest were decorated in some kind of war paint. Blood red ochre and charcoal black. Primitive designs, but also deeply disturbing.

Mr. Black stepped away from the mirror.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“I am Cheveyo,” said the Indian. “You knew my brother. JoeJoe.”

Mr. Black frowned. “The name doesn’t—”

“You cut his throat. Left him to die on the road.”

Mr. Black smiled thinly. “Ah, yes. I remember now. It was over quickly. He didn’t suffer.”

“You will.”

“Ah.”

Mr. Black reached down to his belt and removed his small, curved knife that reminded him of a bear claw.

“I find it’s not size that matters.”

Cheveyo curled his lip and puffed out his chest. Muscles rippled as he reached behind his back to withdraw a large, glistening knife with a carved bone handle.

“Sometimes, it is.”