No Cry For Help

by Grant McKenzie

  “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 a
cross 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.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Cheveyo lifted one corner of the yellow tarp and forced himself not to recoil at the sight beneath.

  The human body holds twelve pints of blood, and his young brother had spilled every last drop.

  “Any idea who would do this?” asked Marvin.

  From his crouched position, Cheveyo looked up at his cousin, dressed impeccably in his RCMP uniform. The sight of it — oppression wrapped in starched, crisp lines — made him shudder inside, but he didn’t allow it to show.

  His cousin wasn’t alone. Far too many unfriendly eyes were glaring at him from the uniforms that surrounded the perimeter. His proximity to the police also made his warriors nervous as they were forced to stay outside the flimsy barrier of crime scene tape.

  “I have enemies,” said Cheveyo in answer to Marvin’s question, “you know that.” He shook his head. “But this . . . this isn’t the Angels, Big Circle or Sanghera. Too personal. Too professional. An odd mixture, no?”

  “Professional?” said Marvin.

  “One cut.”

  Cheveyo turned to stare over at his largest warrior, the one he had renamed Kuruk, a Pawnee name for bear. Kuruk was pressed against the yellow tape, arms folded across a barrel chest, biceps bulging. Two constables stood nearby, no doubt praying he wouldn’t step over the line and force them to act.

  Cheveyo raised his voice. “It would take even a strong man a lot of practice to do such a thing. The cut is savage, but clean. This would not go unnoticed if he was available for hire.”

  Kuruk nodded and immediately began working his phone.

  “We don’t think JoeJoe was the intended target,” said Marvin. “This isn’t about you.”

  Cheveyo took one last look at his dead brother before gently replacing the tarp and standing up. He glanced over at Crow’s truck, taking in the twisted remains of the smashed side mirror.

  “You think it was about Crow?”

  “He’s missing,” said Marvin. “We’ve posted two constables at his house, just in case. But no, we think it’s about Wallace.”

  “The white man?”

  Marvin nodded.

  “The white skin didn’t do this,” said Cheveyo.

  “Oh?” Marvin raised both eyebrows. “How do you know?”

  Cheveyo allowed a thin smile to cross his lips.

  “You need lessons in subtlety, my cousin. But you already know it wasn’t Wallace.” He looked around at the crowd and the number of police cars blocking off the neighborhood. “What do the witnesses tell you?”

  Marvin sighed and looked over his shoulder to where a small gaggle of senior officers were in deep discussion. He lowered his voice.

  “Several witnesses saw a tall black man in a large SUV. He cut off Crow’s truck, killed JoeJoe with one cut like you said, and then chased after Crow in his vehicle.” Marvin nodded toward a nearby alley. “They went down there. We found a broken cellphone and some blood, but not enough to suggest he wanted Crow dead. At least not right away.”

  “And this black man is what? Searching for Wallace, too?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “But you believe my brother is simply collateral damage? Wrong place, wrong time.”

  Cheveyo lowered his head before Marvin could answer, not wanting to hear the karmic truth.

  Crow had asked for a simple favor to transport his friend across the border and Cheveyo had been happy to oblige. Crow had earned that loyalty. He was not only a cousin, but a childhood friend who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him when the skinny white boys at school had drunk their full of bravery and decided to teach the unwelcome Indians a lesson in mob rule. It was a lesson they didn’t forget.

  But now that favor had cost him the life of his cherished brother.

  Despite Cheveyo’s attempts at running an equitable camp, with all members receiving a fair share in the band’s profits, it had been difficult to disguise his biased affection for his young brother.

  JoeJoe was never the most reliable or hardest working, but he brought a joy and lightness to Cheveyo’s life that few others could either appreciate or understand.

  And now he was gone.

  Why?

  Cheveyo looked up at the sudden sound of screeching tires as several patrol cars left the area with full lights and sirens. He saw Marvin running to his own patrol car and yelled after him.

  Marvin turned his head slightly as he slid inside.

  He mouthed the words so perfectly it may as well have been a yell.

  “We’ve found Crow.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Inside the truck, Wallace quickly practiced how to load the shotgun’s magazine and the simple pump action required to eject the spent shell and load a fresh one into the chamber.

  Armed and dangerous with spare shells stuffed in his pocket, he slipped out of the truck and moved toward the bungalow. His only lessons in stealth came from his childhood, playing Cowboys & Indians or Commando & Nazi, where sticks became guns and a mortal wound could be healed by the simple tag from a friend.

  As he did then, Wallace avoided the sidewalk and stuck close to the homes. The neighborhood was quiet and no one seemed to notice as he quickly cut across lawns and ducked beneath windows.

  After he hopped the last hedge to flatten himself against the side wall of the detective’s bungalow, Wallace’s heart was pounding at close to two hundred beats per minute and acrid sweat dripped off his brow. He glanced around nervously, but the neighborhood remained quiet.

  He dropped to a crouch and quickly scuttled underneath a large picture window that brightened the bungalow’s main room. When he reached the other side, he popped up and glanced inside.

  The large room beyond the glass was empty.

  Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, Wallace stepped onto the porch and moved to the front door. The new porch was solidly built, each floorboard screwed down tight. His footsteps barely made a sound.

  A new screen had been hung in front of the original wood door. Its hinges were oiled and fresh. Silent. Wallace eased it open and tried the handle.

  The door was unlocked.

  If he wanted to turn around. Now was the time.

  Wallace hesitated, knowing that both men inside were likely armed and definitely better trained than him.

  But what choice did he have? They took his family and he was the only one who could get them back.

  Wallace opened the door and crept into the house.

  INSIDE, WALLACE moved to the right, his shotgun held firm against his shoulder, leading with the barrel and scanning the room for any movement.

  Nothing.

  The room was barely furnished, the plaster walls showing recent signs of having been stripped of wallpaper. Large splotches of different colored paint dabbled the surfaces as though the owner was still deciding on his best combinations.

  Wallace moved through the room and entered the adjoining dining area. The carpet in this smaller room had been ripped up to expose once-beautiful hardwood floors. The process of restoration hadn’t yet begun.

  Apart from a disposable Formica-topped table and two green vinyl chairs, the room was empty.

  From the dining area, an arched doorway led into the kitchen.

  Wallace listened for any obvious sounds of occupation, but he didn’t hear a thing.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow, repositioned the heavy gun against his shoulder and moved into the kitchen.

  It was empty, too.

  A shadow appeared in an opposing doorway and
Wallace swiveled toward it, his breath trapped in his throat, eyes bulging. His finger moved to the trigger.

  The shadow flapped and rustled, exposing itself as nothing but a sheet of heavy plastic covering a hole that led down to an old dirt basement.

  Wallace gasped and instantly withdrew his finger from inside the trigger guard. He choked back a foul stream of abuse, desperately trying to turn his fear into fuel. His mind was alive with negative chatter, every base instinct telling him to flee. He bit down on his lip, drawing blood, fighting with the only weapon he had — anger.

  Wallace crossed the room quickly, his shoes leaving footprints in a thick blanket of white plaster dust. He moved through a second doorway into a narrow hall. Three more doors beckoned, but only one of them was closed.

  He quickly checked the other two rooms, finding them empty, before pressing his ear to the closed door.

  The sound of exertion vibrated through the wood.

  Inside the bedroom, somebody was grunting; working up a sweat.

  Wallace gripped his shotgun tightly and inhaled.

  He heard the inner voice ask, “Are you ready?”

  Wallace didn’t bother answering as he turned the handle and rushed inside.

  CHAPTER 32

  In the middle of the large bedroom, the blond guard was struggling with the limp detective.

  With his back to the door, the muscular guard stood on a wooden chair. The detective was bound and unconscious, his slack body slung over the guard’s shoulder while he anchored a purple silk cord to a secured metal eyebolt in the ceiling.

  The other end of the short cord was tied in a hangman’s noose and strung around the detective’s neck.

  To make the scene even more disturbing, the detective was dressed in women’s lingerie: a padded black bra, matching lace panties, silk hose and garter belts. His face was painted with garish crimson lipstick, powdery blush and royal purple eyeshadow that was a close match to the cord.