Authors: Grant McKenzie
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.
The unexpected sight caught Wallace by surprise.
“What the fuck?”
The guard spun at the sudden intrusion. He was bare-chested with sloppy lipstick kiss marks dotting his smooth, swollen pecs. The marks betrayed a playful beginning to a deadly game
—
one last kiss; one last loose end
.
The guard’s eyes widened in disbelief as Wallace, armed and confused, filled the doorway. But then, without any regard for the limp form upon his shoulder, the guard released his hold on the detective and leapt off the chair.
In Wallace’s mind, time slowed.
The guard seemed to float, his body twisting as he aimed for the bed and the leather holster resting on the nearby nightstand. In the same moment, the detective’s inert body dropped toward the floor.
“Don’t!”
Wallace’s shotgun boomed, the noise deafening, tearing chunks of plaster from the rear wall above the bed and causing an enormous cloud of white dust to explode inward. The dust was so thick it wrapped itself around the guard like a wizard’s cloak of invisibility.
“Don’t move! Don’t move!”
Wallace tried to rush forward, to stop the guard from reaching his gun, but his way was blocked when the noose snapped around the detective’s neck, stopping his fall with a violent jerk.
The detective’s eyes sprang open in fearful panic, the pupils rolling as if unable to focus, and a guttural, choking screech escaped his lips. His throat was turning purple, his face red. His feet thrashed wildly, but his hands were bound behind his back and he had no way to stop himself from being hanged . . .
Wallace hesitated, not knowing what to do. If he lowered the gun to help . . .
The decision was taken from him as the detective’s flailing feet miraculously found purchase on the wobbly wooden chair.
Wallace’s attention immediately swung back to the guard whose hunched and ghostly form within the cloud of dust was circling around the detective’s swaying body as though preparing to attack.
“Don’t fucking move,” Wallace screamed. He pumped the shotgun for emphasis, proving it was loaded. “There’s no place to run. I only want my family.”
The guard did two things simultaneously.
He freed his gun from its holster.
And he kicked the chair.
The detective’s feet instantly lost purchase with the tumbling chair and his body swung free again to block Wallace’s line of sight. If he fired, the shotgun’s wide spread would cut the hanging detective in half.
The guard didn’t face the same dilemma.
He opened fire.
Wallace hissed in pain and stumbled backwards. The inside of his arm burned and he lost his footing. A piece of the wall exploded beside his ear as his feet slid out from under him. On the way down, his skull cracked against the door frame and a flash of starry darkness blurred his vision. When he hit the floor, his finger tightened on the trigger and his shotgun boomed for a second time.
Another, even thicker cloud of plaster filled the room as a huge chunk of the ceiling gave way and the detective crashed to the floor.
Cursing himself and knowing he was in mortal danger, Wallace shook off the pain and quickly scrambled back to his feet.
His choice was simple. Retreat or move forward.
He chambered another round
— the menacing sound of the shotgun unexpectedly making him feel slightly less vulnerable. The thick plaster dust made it impossible to see. It was like standing in the middle of heavy fog.
Another gunshot filled the room and something small, hot and lethal brushed Wallace’s hair. He yelped in surprise and dove to one side, hitting the floor again and rolling with the shotgun clutched to his chest.
Two more shots followed to puncture the wall where he had just been standing.
Wallace kept rolling. Under the bed where all scared children fled
— only he didn’t stop.
He rolled to the other side and rose up on his knees.
The air cleared noticeably in front of the bedroom window where the single-paned glass in the window was shattered in such a way it resembled the guillotine teeth of a Halloween pumpkin.
Wallace saw the guard’s broad shoulders through the cloud of dust. He was moving cautiously toward the door, gun extended, to where he had last seen Wallace fall.
Knowing he was outmatched, Wallace didn’t shout a warning or try to fight fair. With an internal roar, he reversed the shotgun in his hand and sprang to his feet. Before the guard could react to his onrushing footsteps, Wallace slammed the butt-end of the gun into a tender spot above his right ear.
Bone cracked and flesh split, but the guard only dropped to one knee. No stranger to physical pain, the guard shook off the devastating blow. Wallace gulped in disbelief as the guard turned and lunged. His teeth were bared and his fingers had curled into eye-gouging claws.
Wallace took one step back, fighting against every natural impulse to turn and run, to take his chances with the broken window. Instead, he raised the shotgun again and slammed the guard square in the face with every ounce of strength he had left.
There was a sickening crunch as rubber-sheathed metal met bone and the guard’s eyes rolled into the back of his head before he collapsed to the floor and lay still.