No Cry For Help (9 page)

CHAPTER
21

Mr. Black watched the blinking red dot move to within a mile of his location before he slipped into traffic. From there, it only took a few minutes to arrive at a side street that crossed paths with the truck’s main route.

He timed it perfectly. The light facing him turned red just as he pulled up to the crosswalk with a clear view of the busy four-way intersection in front.

He glanced at his phone, watched as the red dot approached, and then looked up to get a visual on his prey.

Unfortunately, instead of driving straight through the intersection and delivering a clear side-on view of its occupants, the truck seized the opportunity of a brief gap in oncoming traffic to quickly turn west. It vanished behind a closed curtain of vehicles before Mr. Black had the opportunity to fully observe its interior.

But with that brief glimpse his thin smile faded, taking with it the delicious tingle of hunger and power that a game of cat and mouse always delivered. Unless it was a trick of the light, the passenger beside Crow appeared too small and his hair was tied back in a long, stark black ponytail.

Wallace’s hair wasn’t long enough to sport a ponytail.

Mr. Black glanced at the map displayed on his phone. The truck’s destination was clear. Crow’s home was located a mere three blocks away.

When the light turned green, Mr. Black pressed the accelerator hard. He needed visual confirmation before his targets disappeared inside the house.

CHAPTER
22

Laurel’s cellphone buzzed with an incoming message.

She pushed her plate away and read the text. When she was done, she looked over at Wallace with sad eyes.

“I hope everything works out for you,” she said.

“You’re going?”

She nodded and handed over a single key on an electronic fob, then copied the directions from the text message onto a blank business card.

“The keys are for the truck,” she said. “I have my own car parked nearby. The directions are to a dealer that Cheveyo trusts. It’s best I don’t know too much about that.”

Laurel dug into her other pocket and pulled out a second blank card. She hesitated for a moment, then wrote down a phone number and added it to the pile.

“That’s my number,” she said. “I don’t expect you to use it, and I may not answer if you do, but just in case.”

Wallace looked up at her with gratitude in his eyes.

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say.

Laurel smiled, stood up and pressed a hand to his shoulder. She squeezed, lightly, and then was gone.

CHAPTER
23

Alone, Wallace made his way out of the restaurant and down the block to where Laurel had parked the blue truck.

Every step felt heavy as though his shoes were soled with lead, but at least he had a destination.

He thought of the blond guard. His sneer, his muscles. First, he would get a gun, then he would track the son of a bitch down. He would get him to talk, to tell where his family was and why they’d been taken.

And if he didn’t talk . . .

Across the street, a marked Sheriff’s patrol car snuck up on soft tires, catching Wallace by surprise. It drifted past slowly, not in any hurry, but the mere sight of it quickened Wallace’s heartbeat and brought a nasty lump of phlegm to his throat.

His first instinct was to lower his gaze and turn his head, but he fought the impulse. Better to keep moving, not falter in his step and bring unwanted attention with a suspicious display of guilt. He had seen enough junkies scurrying along East Hastings to know what not to do.

The uniformed deputy gave Wallace a quick but casual onceover before turning his attention back to the rain-slicked road.

Wallace watched him drive away, waiting breathlessly for the sudden flash of brake lights, followed by the squeal of rubber and pierce of siren as he spun around. It didn’t happen, but Wallace was still drenched in sweat by the time he climbed into the truck and started the engine.

So much for being a tough guy.

WALLACE FOLLOWED
Laurel’s written directions a short distance inland from Blaine. He compared the route to the truck’s built-in GPS system, impressed by its uncanny accuracy until he almost missed his turn. The potholed gravel road that led to an unmarked private acreage wasn’t on the truck’s electronic map.

After two miles, the country road swallowed its last sprinkle of gravel and became little more than a deep-rutted mule trail before it dead ended at a dense barrier of old growth forest. Wallace had to flick on his high beams to spot the narrow break in the trees that served as an unwelcoming driveway. If it hadn’t been for the bullet-ridden
No Trespassing
sign, he may have missed it completely.

When his truck finally broke through the dark tunnel of trees, the gray sky opened upon a rough square of cleared land that had a distinctly inherited feel about it.

The current owner had allowed a once impressive Victorian-style home to fall victim to cruel weather and neglect. And what had once been a perfect circle of smooth lawn was now pockmarked with a rusting menagerie of discarded engines and corroded chassis of at least a dozen trucks.

All of the wrecks were peppered with bullet holes in a wide assortment of sizes.

Wallace parked the truck and climbed out just as a half-dozen hound dogs, baying as if they had been kicked in the nether regions, came bounding around the house. Slobber flew from their dangling jowls in foamy tendrils.

Wallace froze in place, but he was no stranger to dogs. Despite the excited barks, every tail was wagging. He held out his hands and allowed the large animals to catch his scent. After they had a good sniff, the dogs quickly calmed down and lay panting at his feet.

Shortly after, as though it had been a test, the porch door creaked open and the dogs’ owner stepped out of the house. He was shirtless and barefoot, his lanky frame draped in a baggy pair of denim dungarees that were at least six inches too short at the cuffs.

He wore an off-white turban, unusual enough for a Caucasian, but it was the unkempt mass covering his face that made him look like the long-lost cousin of Jed Clampett from
The Beverly Hillbillies
. His salt and pepper blend of prickly hair sprouted from every pore, so that it became difficult to ascertain what was actually ear hair, nose hair, chest, shoulder or beard.

Given a few more years, his unibrow would join the mix and some hunter would likely mistake him for a starving Sasquatch.

The man pointed a slim finger at Wallace and grinned through a set of baked-bean teeth.

“You he?”

“I . . . I guess so.”

Wallace cringed. He had hoped to sound more confident, but his voice betrayed a total lack of experience in such matters. He felt as awkward as a teenager buying his first dime bag of pot and hoping it wasn’t oregano.

The man looked him over and wrinkled his nose before slipping a hand inside his dungarees and scratching his groin.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“Cheveyo.”

The man winked to show he had delivered the correct password and widened his grin. The contents of his breakfast were trapped in the sides of his mouth for later enjoyment, making Wallace suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten.

“I’m Randolph Phineas Gage. What d’you need?”

“I was told I could get a gun,” said Wallace. When the man didn’t blink, he added, “I also wouldn’t mind a pair of good binoculars and a spare canvas tarp if you have one.”

Randolph stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped off the porch. He moved like he had a song stuck in his head, all hips and shoulders.

“Follow.”

The dogs stayed put as Wallace followed the man around the house to a double garage that had been built in a matching Victorian style but had suffered the same neglected fate. Randolph moved to the near side and yanked open a flimsy screen door that was barely hanging onto its hinges.

Behind the thin screen, however, was a second door. This one was solid steel and could have easily been rescued from a bank vault. Randolph used two keys, which he turned simultaneously, to unlock it.

Inside, the room looked nothing like its owner. Everything was displayed and organized in a spotlessly clean temperature-controlled environment. One wall showed an assortment of over twenty different handguns, while the rear wall held long guns of every action: bolt, hinge, lever, pump, semi-auto, and some that looked like they could take out a tank.

The third wall contained a series of heavy-duty shelves that housed crates of ammunition, explosives and various other pieces of lethal ordinance. The only item that seemed out of place was a red plastic rain barrel stuffed with highly-polished wooden baseball bats with the name
Phineas
stenciled in fancy script on each one.

Randolph turned to Wallace.

“You do much shootin’?”

Wallace shrugged. “A bit of hunting with friends, but mostly just targets.”

Randolph moved to the rear wall and grabbed a sleek satin-black shotgun. He pumped it twice and peered down the barrel before tossing it over.

Wallace caught it in both hands and held it as awkwardly as if he had been thrown a dead fish.

“That’s a Winchester Super X Defender. Pump-action twelve gauge with five-shot magazine. Eighteen-inch fixed cylinder choked barrel for wide patterning. Best weapon for someone who don’t know what they’re doin’. Just pump, point and shoot. Shoot low, you’ll cripple ’em. Shoot high and they’ll be missin’ a head. Basically, if you’re close enough, you can’t miss.”

Randolph studied Wallace’s reaction intently before adding, “That’s one scary gun. Point that at someone and they’ll be shitting themselves before you even pull the trigger. It’s unloaded, so play with it, get comfortable. It’s got a nice weight. You run out of ammo, it also makes a hell of a club.”

Wallace pumped the action and lifted the gun to his shoulder. He peered down the length of the barrel.

Randolph grinned. “See. Perfect fit.”

He turned to the other wall, opened a crate and pulled out a box of thumb-sized slugs. He tossed those to Wallace, too.

“You’ve got six shots. Five in the magazine and one in the chamber. If you need to reload, it’s too big to kill. At that point, I suggest runnin’ away.”

Randolph grinned, enjoying his own joke.

He returned to his shelves and found a pair of binoculars still in the box.

“I don’t get much call for this regular stuff, but I like to be prepared. These are Nikon glass, military grade, real beauties.”

Randolph handed them over and moved his gaze to the shelf of explosives. He raised his unibrow enquiringly.

“I just got a new supply of Paleface Barbecue Lighters.” He chuckled again, but when Wallace looked confused, he explained, “White phosphorous grenades. Hard to come by, but I’ll give you a good deal.”

“I want someone to talk,” said Wallace nervously, already feeling too far out of his depth. “Not blow them to bits.”

Randolph clapped his hands together and flashed his stained browns again. “Then let me give you a present. Free with every purchase.”

He moved to the rain barrel and selected a baseball bat. Its lacquered coat had a sleek bluish finish.

“I make these myself,” he said proudly. “Got a woodshop out back.”

He held it out patiently until Wallace shifted the shotgun to his left hand and accepted the bat in his right. It was surprisingly heavier than Wallace had expected.

“I core out the center with a honeycomb drill and fill it with a patent-pending molten blend,” said Randolph. “But I still manage to keep the balance, you know? You can swing a home run and shatter a man’s knee with one blow. If it was legal, every major leaguer would use one.”

Wallace didn’t know what to say. He remained quiet and hoped he didn’t look as overwhelmed as he felt.

“Anything else?” Randolph asked.

Wallace cleared his throat and asked about the canvas tarp.

“I’ve got one in my woodshop,” said Randolph. “It’s a bit messy, paint splatters and woodchips and such.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Randolph led the way outside and locked the steel door behind them. He loped off behind the house to his workshop, while Wallace returned to his truck with his new supplies.

The dogs had moved off the lawn and were sprawled across the front porch of the house. Each one of them yawned in turn as Wallace walked by.

At the truck, Wallace laid the shotgun on the rear seat and covered it with a blanket. He placed the baseball bat on top and the binoculars beside it.

When Randolph returned, he dumped the tarp in the back of the truck and shook Wallace’s hand.

“Nice meetin’ you, fella,” he said. “I’ll send our friend the bill and forget I ever saw ya. ’Preciate the same in kind.”

If someone had told Wallace two days ago that he would be buying illegal firearms while trespassing in a foreign country, he would have checked their veins for track marks. It wasn’t difficult for him to agree to never speak of it again.