[2010] No Cry for Help

by Grant McKenzie

  Christ, if he thought it was the truth, if it was even possible that he could harm his own family, he would have told her to keep pressing that button, keep sending those volts, make this killer’s heart explode.

  But it wasn’t the truth and she had no idea what true torture was. He’d be damned if he let her see him crumble again.

  Stacey broke the silence.

  “Think of this as a courtesy,” she said. “One friendly nation to another.”

  Wallace didn’t speak, but his unblinking stare spoke volumes.

  “Your family isn’t in the United States,” she continued. “I don’t know what you’re running from or what you’ve done and, frankly, I don’t care. It’s not my jurisdiction and it’s not my problem. You’re no longer welcome here. Once you’re back across the border, you can file a missing persons report with the RCMP. I’m sure they’ll be happy to investigate or get you the help you need.”

  She paused, waiting for a response.

  One didn’t come.

  She blinked rapidly and the wrinkles around her mouth deepened in annoyance.

  “If you try to return, you’ll be arrested and imprisoned for criminal mischief, wasting police time and making a false report. Simple as that. Your passport has been flagged and my report will be attached.” She snapped her gum. Loud. “Bottom line. Don’t come back.”

  The car crested a hill and the lights of the border appeared a short distance ahead. The driver followed the road into Peace Arch International Park and pulled off to one side. He stopped less than two feet from the painted boundary line that straddled the 49th parallel and marked the longest undefended border in the world.

  Off to their left, an impressive white stone archway stood in the middle of the sixteen hectare park that, on a clear day, could steal your breath with its ocean vista upon a crown of steep bluffs.

  The iron gates on the giant archway were kept open as a symbol of peace between two great nations. On the American side, an inscription read: “Children of a Common Mother.” On the Canadian side: “Brethren Dwelling Together in Unity.”

  Until today, Wallace had actually believed the lies.

  On either end of the park stood another set of gates. These were not kept open. They were patrolled day and night by members of the Canada Border Services Agency and U.S. Customs and Border Protection. Despite the symbolism of the white monument, every vehicle entering either country had to pass through proper inspection.

  The patrolman switched off the engine, climbed out and walked around the cruiser. He opened the rear passenger door and motioned for Wallace to join him outside.

  Wallace struggled out of the seat and finally made it to his feet. His legs were wobbly, the muscles still in shock, but he managed to stand tall. He was two inches taller and more than a few pounds heavier. The officer smirked, unafraid, and motioned for him to turn around. When Wallace complied, the officer unlocked the cuffs.

  Detective Stacey walked up beside Wallace and placed one hand on the crook of his elbow. Her thumb hovered over a nerve cluster, the threat of pain cocked but held in check.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. Her voice was quiet but direct. “You’re still on American soil and our justice is swift.”

  Before Wallace could formulate a response, his green minivan pulled in behind the patrol car. Detective Petersen climbed out of the driver’s seat and moved towards them. He looked angry, a purple vein pulsing on one side of his egg-shaped skull, as if driving the van had been an indignity.

  “Keys are in it,” he said. “And you need a tune-up. It runs like shit.”

  Detective Stacey released Wallace’s arm.

  “You should go now,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to see me when I get angry.”

  Wallace rubbed his wrists and walked to the van. He wished he could leave them with some scathing remark, but the only thought that raced through his mind was playing on an endless loop: What do I do now?

  He climbed into the van, adjusted the seat for his longer legs, and glared out at the cops.

  He wasn’t given a choice.

  He drove the van across the boundary marker into Canada. Fifty meters ahead, Customs waited to check him through.

  CHAPTER 6

  Crow eased up to the police barricade, shut off his engine and stepped down from the cab. The four cruisers were empty, their occupants busy somewhere deeper within the residential cul-de-sac, but two Royal Canadian Mounted Police constables had drawn the short straw and stood guard in front.

  The uniformed constables — black storm jackets and forage caps, the distinctive yellow headband and gold badge reflecting their cruisers’ flashing lights — eyed him with suspicion.

  Crow flashed an easy grin and held his hands open by his side to show they were empty. It was a reflex he had learned the hard way when youthful exuberance had mixed with political naivety and he stubbornly believed defiance and civil disobedience could save an old-growth forest from the logger’s saw.

  He called out, “Is Marvin Joe working tonight?”

  The constables exchanged a glance; the question unexpected.

  “He’s inside the house,” said one of the constables. He was young, barely into his twenties, with a pinched nose and skin the color of rye bread. His tone turned cautious. “He know you?”

  His partner was roughly the same age, but white skinned with a dimpled Kirk Douglas chin and light baby blue eyes.

  “He’s my cousin.”

  That was another lesson he had learned. Let the fascists know you were, in some small way, part of the extended family and sometimes things went a little bit smoother.

  Crow walked closer, straining his neck in an attempt to peer beyond the pulsating strobes to see what house the cops were investigating. He couldn’t smell smoke, so at least Wallace hadn’t left the coffee pot on or anything stupid like that.

  Perhaps, he reasoned, one of the neighbors had become the victim of a marijuana grow-operation. Potent B.C. Bud was a huge cash crop all over the province and more than a few absent landlords had been devastated to find their rental homes stripped to the studs and infested with harmful mold after a gang had made its quick profit and left the unsuspecting owners in the lurch.

  Crow couldn’t see what was going on beyond the blinding bars of light, so he asked.

  “What’s going on?”

  Blue eyes looked Crow up and down. Fleece-lined, red-and-black checkered lumberjack shirt, loose Haines T-shirt, over-washed blue jeans and a ratty pair of dirt brown cowboy boots that had actually done some of the shit-kicking they were designed for. Crow wasn’t as handsome as he had been in his lean-bodied youth. Soft living and a dark period before the girls were born, where liquor made a damn good attempt at curdling his soul, had definitely left its mark.

  Blue eyes curled his lip in disapproval.

  “You live here?”

  “No, but—”

  Blue eyes snorted. “Then it’s none of your damn business, is it?”

  “I have friends on this street,” said Crow. “No need to get nasty.”

  Blue eyes puffed up his chest like a rooster, stepped forward and aggressively sniffed the air.

  “This ain’t band land, chief. You been drinking?”

  Crow immediately took a step back and held his hands up in mock surrender. Racist paleface motherfucker. He shook his head in disgust, but kept his anger in check. No point getting into it. Only one side lost in a clash between redskins and police, and it was never the police.

  So much for being part of the family.

  Crow returned to his truck and opened the door. Before climbing in, he stopped and turned to the dark-skinned constable.

  “Can you at least tell me the number of the house you’re investigating? Just so I don’t have to worry.”

  “Twenty eight oh five,” said the constable before his partner could stop him.

  Blue eyes glared across the gap with his lips curled in a mocking sneer. “That your friend’s h
ouse?”

  Keeping his face immobile, Crow shook his head again. He climbed into the truck and made a U-turn. Once he was back on the main drag, he drove an additional three blocks before pulling into the empty parking lot of a small daytime bakery.

  He threw the truck into park and yanked out his cellphone. His palms were sweating as he stabbed number two on the speed dial.

  Wallace’s cellphone went straight to voicemail without ringing, which likely meant it was switched off.

  Crow chewed his lower lip as he scrolled through the phone’s built-in contact list until he found his cousin’s number.

  The phone was answered on the fourth ring.

  “Marvin,” said Crow without preamble, “are you at Wallace’s house? What’s going on?”

  There was a pause. “That you, Crow?”

  “Yeah. I’m outside and saw the roadblock. Some racist dickhead with an asshole for a chin wouldn’t let me through.”

  “You know where Wallace is?” Marvin’s voice was tight as though he was trying to talk without moving his lips.

  Crow could hear him walking through the house, then the opening and closing of a heavy sliding door. The background noise changed. It became more open, airy. Marvin had moved outside, probably to the back yard.

  Crow had helped Wallace build the large deck his cousin was now standing on. Red cedar with a circular stone fireplace at one end for kids’ wiener roasts and the only good thing white men had ever brought to a campfire — S’mores.

  Crow had a bad feeling, so he didn’t hesitate to lie. “I’ve no idea. What’s happening there?”

  Marvin sighed. Heavily. Trying to shift a burden.

  “You would tell me if you knew, right?”

  “Course I would, Marv, we’re family. Now come on, spill. This is my buddy we’re talking about. You’re making me nervous.”

  Marvin sighed again. The burden hadn’t shifted.

  “OK,” he said finally, “but this stays between us.”

  “Course.”

  Another sigh, followed by a long pause. Crow was just about ready to reach through the phone and strangle him. Marvin had always been a cautious one. Straight-laced, bookish, afraid of girls, and always the first one to squeal to the elders when the older kids tried to make the younger ones swallow worms like baby birds. It was no wonder he joined the red jackets.

  “Now come on,” Crow growled impatiently. “Tell me.”

  Marvin relented.

  “The detachment received a call from a concerned neighbor,” he said. “The caller said a cat was howling at Wallace’s door. It sounded like the thing was dying, so this neighbor went over to check. While he was there, he saw the front door slightly ajar and smeared blood on the handle. That’s when he called us.”

  Crow frowned. There wasn’t supposed to be anybody at home. The whole family had gone down to the States for the weekend.

  “Is anybody hurt?” he asked.

  “We don’t know,” said Marvin. “That’s the weird part. Inside, we found evidence of more blood on the floors. A lot of it. It appears someone made an attempt to clean it up. We found the mop in the garage.”

  Crow shook his head in disbelief. There was no way. Not Wallace. They had worked together for fifteen years. He was godfather to Crow’s two girls; Crow was godfather to his sons. Wallace was a goddamned hero. The mayor awarded him a special medal. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.

  “There’s been a mistake,” said Crow.

  “It’s not just the blood,” said Marvin.

  “Oh, Christ!”

  Crow felt his head spin and his stomach churn. Don’t let it be the boys. Please. Don’t.

  “There are no bodies,” said Marvin as though he was reading Crow’s mind, “but all of Alicia’s things are missing. Same with the boys. All their clothes, toys, toothbrushes, makeup, shoes, everything. There are no school photos or drawings on the fridge. It’s like they were never here.”

  Crow couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing.

  “How is that possible?” he asked.

  “Wallace’s stuff hasn’t been touched,” Marvin continued. “His clothes are hanging in the closet, his toothbrush is by the sink. All perfectly normal . . . if he was a bachelor. Add that to the blood on the floor and you’ve got a real messy situation.”

  The color drained from Crow’s face and his mind reeled at the unimaginable possibilities.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re saying Wallace did . . . did what? You think he killed his family?”

  “Killed them, dumped the bodies and erased all signs of them living here.”

  Crow snapped his teeth together. “No! That’s bullshit. Wallace lives for those boys and he would never harm a hair on Alicia’s head. He loves her, loves them. He wouldn’t just snap. No way. They’re his goddamn life.”

  “When did you see him last?” asked Marvin.

  “Yesterday. We were both working. Same shift.”

  “He seem okay?”

  “Yeah, he was fine. Crackin’ his usual lousy jokes, you know?”

  Crow remembered Wallace talking about going to Bellingham with the family for the weekend. The boys were stoked because the hotel had a swimming pool, and Alicia was looking forward to finding some bargains at the mall.

  “And you haven’t noticed anything odd in his behavior,” said Marvin. “Depression, anger, hitting the bottle, anything like that?”

  “Nothing.” Crow snapped his answer, not liking the question. It felt like he was being grilled and . . . when had Marvin grown a pair?

  “When was the last time you saw Alicia and the boys?” asked Marvin.

  Crow hesitated. Tried to think. Delilah saw Alicia all the time. They talked just about every day.

  “Last weekend,” said Crow.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, we all went to the park. The boys were kicking a soccer ball around. The girls played on the swings.”

  “Huh.”

  Crow cringed. He hated that type of vague response. It was so . . . cop like.

  “Wallace just has the one vehicle, right?” Marvin asked.

  “Yeah, the minivan. Is it around?”

  “No, it’s missing.”

  “Huh.” Give him a taste of his own medicine.

  “So why were you coming to see him? It’s late.”

  Marvin’s tone had changed and Crow knew he was no longer talking to his cousin. He was talking to a cop.

  “I went out for a drive,” said Crow. “Too much estrogen flowing at home, so I thought I’d see if Wallace was still awake and we could play a couple games of pool. He has a table set up in his garage.”

  “I saw that,” said Marvin. His voice had grown distant as Crow’s apparent usefulness faded.

  Crow heard the sliding door being pulled open and Marvin’s heavy footsteps slap the linoleum floor of Wallace’s kitchen. For some reason, it caused a shiver to run down his spine.

  Why was there blood on the floor?

  Were Alicia and the kids okay?

  Was Wallace?

  Crow chewed his bottom lip again. Marvin was fucking useless. He didn’t have any answers, just questions and Crow didn’t like the direction they were going.

  “If Wallace gets in touch, call me,” said Marvin. “It would be better for him if he comes to us rather than gets picked up on a warrant. We’re issuing that now.”

  “If he calls,” said Crow. “I’ll—”

  Crow hung up without finishing. It would have been another lie anyway. He rubbed his hands across his face while he processed what Marvin had told him. But the more he thought about it, the less he believed.

  Marvin may be family, but Wallace was his brother. Not through blood or marriage or drunken indiscretion. By choice. And the people you choose to bring into your life, to share your heart and your home, those were your real brothers and sisters. They became part of your soul, your spirit, and to doubt them was to doubt yourself.

  CHAPTER 7


  Wallace cleared customs without incident, his emotions too numb to explain his living nightmare to the officer in charge. Where would he begin? How do you explain something that even the police believe is a lie?

  No, he had nothing to declare.

  Yes, it was a miserable night.

  Thanks, same to you.

  Back on the road, he pressed the accelerator hard, speeding northeast along the rural back roads of Surrey with a plan to connect with the TransCanada highway before turning west towards North Vancouver — and home.

  Home? The evocation brought him up short.

  Home didn’t exist without Alicia and his sons.

  Tears sprang to his eyes, a salty trickle that quickly became an unstoppable flood until a powerful tsunami of suppressed emotion broke over him all at once. Lethal debris churned in its wake, slashing at his soul and kicking his tortured mind with steel-toed boots.

  Wallace gasped, drowning beneath the suffocating weight.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He couldn’t see.

  A painful realization: What was he doing?

  He had to go back.

  NOW!

  An agonized howl erupted from deep within his core as he cranked the wheel too aggressively for the van’s speed.

  The ungainly vehicle reacted — badly.

  Near-bald tires howled as the brakes screeched and smoked and caused something deep within the steering column to snap. The wheel was torn out of Wallace’s grasp as the rear tires lost their grip on the slick tarmac and the van slid out of control.

  When it hit the gravel shoulder, its top-heavy frame tilted precariously before two of the tires blew and forced the metal rims to chew across a narrow grassy verge.

  Wallace held on for dear life, praying to survive and wondering if he had foolishly wished this upon himself. A way to end the pain of losing everything that mattered.

  The van lost its battle to stay upright as it slammed into a deep trough. The passenger window exploded inward, spraying Wallace in a shower of blunt-edged fragments.

  He gasped as the glass was followed by a surge of cold, rank water.