[2010] No Cry for Help Page 2

  Wallace stood alone, watching them go, his heart sinking deeper with every passing face.

  The mall was empty.

  His family was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  When the police arrived, Wallace explained his situation.

  The uniformed officers listened.

  Asked questions.

  Told him to calm down when he grew irritated that they weren’t doing anything, and then radioed for a detective.

  Two showed up.

  “YOU’RE CANADIAN,” said the first detective.

  She was a hard-looking woman in a gunmetal gray pantsuit with short black hair in a Dorothy Hamill bob and a light olive complexion. She identified herself as Detective Stacey, stepping close to him, shaking his hand. Only later did Wallace realize she had actually wanted to look into his eyes and smell his breath; check for alcohol or the glassy signs of drug use.

  “Yes,” said Wallace, “but my wife is a dual citizen. She was born here. Well, south of here. California.” He was rattled, babbling, trying to keep it together. Failing.

  My family is missing, how does it matter what bloody nationality we are?

  “Does your wife still have family there?” asked the detective. “In California?”

  “What?” Wallace was confused by the question. “No. Her parents died when she was just a kid. She moved to Canada to live with an aunt when she was eight.”

  “Do you have a photo?”

  “Of my wife?”

  The detective chewed a wad of greenish gum and seemed disinterested to the point of insulting.

  Wallace found himself fighting a reflex to raise his voice. From the moment he lost patience with the uniformed patrol, he had seen the cold calculations flow like ice water behind their eyes. He saw the same gears churning inside the two detectives when they took over.

  A man ditched at the shopping mall by his wife and kids. Obviously, he must be an abusive asshole who had beaten her one too many times. She had simply taken the opportunity of a shopping trip to run away.

  This kind of thing didn’t happen to happy, loving couples, right?

  Wallace wanted to scream that they had it all wrong, that he had never, could never, raise his hand to his family. But he felt powerless. If he showed his anger, they would only interpret that as proof he had done exactly what they already suspected him of.

  “I don’t carry a wallet,” said Wallace in answer to the detective’s question. When you sit on your ass all day at work, a wallet was not your friend. “But I have all our passports in the van. We needed them to cross the border.”

  Detective Stacey turned to her partner. Detective Paul Petersen was a slim-built man with a hawkish nose and unusually bright hazelnut eyes. In his early thirties, the end-of-shift shadow showed he shaved his head for vanity. Otherwise he might be mistaken for a tonsured monk. The only stubble was on the sides.

  “Go with him to the vehicle.” Detective Stacey snapped her vile-looking gum. “I’ll see what security has to say.”

  WALLACE’S GREEN minivan stood alone in the emptiness of the parking lot. A seven-year-old Dodge Caravan with British Columbia license plates and a cracked rear bumper from the time Alicia had accidentally backed into a light pole at the boys’ school.

  Wallace dug out his keys and hit the remote button on the fob to disengage the locks. The van beeped and flashed its lights in compliance.

  “The passports are in the glovebox,” he said.

  The detective yawned and scratched his cheek as Wallace slid into the passenger seat and opened the small compartment in the dash. He reached in and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag.

  Instantly, he knew something was wrong.

  Instead of four passports, there was only one.

  He quickly opened the bag and yanked out the lone booklet. When he flipped it open, his own horrid mugshot stared back at him.

  This wasn’t possible.

  He returned to the glovebox and pulled everything out. There wasn’t much. Two roadmaps, registration and insurance papers, some extra fuses, an expired McDonald’s gift certificate from the previous Halloween, and a Dollar Store plastic tire gauge.

  “Is there a problem?” asked the detective.

  Wallace turned to him, his face a blanched mask of disbelief.

  “They’re gone,” he croaked. “The passports are gone.”

  The detective narrowed his eyes and pointed at Wallace’s lap.

  “What’s that then?”

  Wallace glanced down at the slim black-jacketed book.

  “That’s mine,” he said. “But Alicia’s and Fred’s and Alex’s . . .” He couldn’t finish.

  The detective frowned and moved around the van. He peered through the back window at the cargo space behind the middle seat. The rear seat had been folded flat to make room for luggage.

  “You all just have the one bag?” he asked.

  Wallace scrambled out of the passenger seat and moved to the large sliding door in the van’s side. He threw it open with such force it nearly jumped its tracks.

  Their luggage was missing, too.

  Before they left home, Alicia had packed a backpack for each of the boys so they could pitch in and carry their own clothing. She also liked to have her own suitcase, a small hard-sided model to make sure her clothes didn’t get wrinkled. Wallace usually just tossed underwear, socks, bathing suit and an extra shirt into whatever duffel Alicia left out for him.

  The only piece of luggage remaining in the back of the van belonged to him.

  The detective eyed Wallace with renewed suspicion.

  “Their luggage was here,” said Wallace. He knew he sounded desperate, but what else could he say?

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Somebody must have stolen it.”

  “But left behind your bag and your passport?” The detective struggled not to roll his eyes.

  Wallace snapped. “FUCK!”

  He slammed the van door closed with enough force to rattle the window and spun on the detective. The muscles in his neck bulged from the strain and his face flushed crimson as a flood of adrenaline made his blood pressure shoot off the charts.

  “They didn’t leave me!” He was gasping, his words barely coherent. “Something has happened. You need to believe me.”

  The detective took a backwards step and held up one hand. His other hand drifted down to the weapon on his hip.

  “Let’s just take it easy,” he said. “No one’s accusing you of anything. We’re still investigating. OK?”

  Wallace couldn’t speak. His breathing was out of control. A sharp pain stabbed into his chest, and then he bent over and vomited on the ground.

  The detective jumped back in disgust. He lifted his radio and called for a uniformed officer.

  “Let’s talk about this inside.” His hand stayed close to his weapon.

  Wallace clutched the side of the van and struggled to breathe as his stomach dry-heaved.

  CHAPTER 3

  Inside the mall’s compact security office, Detective Stacey listened to her partner’s report. After he was done, she told Wallace to sit in the chair facing her.

  Detective Petersen rested his hip on the nearby wooden desk, while the uniformed officer who had helped escort Wallace in from the parking lot took up residence in the doorway. The two security guards had vacated the smaller office to take up residence in the adjoining room. They were scanning through surveillance footage on the monitors, but so far hadn’t turned up anything out of the ordinary.

  “You know how this looks, right?” said Detective Stacey. “You’ve got quite the temper.”

  Wallace sighed. His throat was raw, but he believed his panic was under control. All he felt now was a cold, aching dread.

  He cleared his throat. “I know you think I had something to do with this, but I didn’t. I don’t know how to prove it to you, but my family really is missing. They’re in trouble and I need you to help me find them.”

  Stacey scratched her nose
and snapped her gum.

  “You said you crossed the border today?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Just after two. We had a late start.”

  “We could check that,” said Petersen.

  Stacey turned to her partner and raised one eyebrow. “You still dating that blond hunk at Border Patrol?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it dating,” said Petersen dryly. His lips curved in a smile.

  “He working tonight?”

  Petersen nodded.

  “Call him,” said Stacey. “Ask for a favor.”

  As Petersen flipped open his cellphone and stepped into the hallway, Stacey turned her attention back to Wallace.

  “Every vehicle that crosses the border is automatically photographed at Customs,” she said. “Our tax dollars at work. If we can get proof that you’re not bullshitting us—”

  “I’m not,” said Wallace.

  “Good,” said Stacey.

  She turned her head and spat a wad of spent gum into a nearby trashcan. Before it finished bouncing off the sides, she had replaced it with a fresh piece. It was small and square with a white candy shell. She didn’t bother to share.

  Petersen stepped back into the room.

  “Ten minutes,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later, the detective’s cellphone rang. Petersen answered and listened.

  “We have email here?” he asked.

  Schulz cleared his throat and entered from the adjoining room. He pointed at a small monitor, mouse and keyboard sitting off to one side of the P.A. system.

  “We have email on the company computer,” he said.

  Stacey snapped her gum and told Schulz to give her partner the address.

  Two minutes later, the computer’s Inbox showed the arrival of a new message with an attached file.

  Stacey clicked on a tiny paperclip icon and waited while a new window opened and the enclosed image filled the screen.

  The photo was large and the detective had to scroll down to see the central part of the image.

  Wallace stood to look over her shoulder.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  This wasn’t possible.

  The photo showed Wallace in the driver’s seat of the van. The passenger seat beside him was empty and nobody occupied either of the seats behind.

  Except for Wallace, the van was empty.

  WALLACE STAGGERED away from the computer and collided with the desk.

  What was happening? How? Why?

  He couldn’t make sense of it.

  Detective Stacey read aloud the message attached to the photo.

  “Lone driver. Identified by Canadian passport as Wallace Gordon Carver. Crossed Peace Arch border at 14:22 today. Zero passengers. Border Patrol have no record of Alicia, Alex or Fred Carver entering the United States of America.”

  Wallace’s mind reeled.

  Photographs don’t lie.

  But this one did.

  It had to.

  CHAPTER 4

  Crow Joe slapped the steering wheel of his ’97 Ford pickup in rhythm to the music and laughed at the lyrics. Man, he loved Country music. Those dumbass cowboys were always getting themselves into hilarious shit — and that was only the stuff they could sing about on family radio.

  The cowpunks he’d known on the rodeo circuit had stories that would curl your toes and make your stomach roil. The clowns and bull riders were the worst. Those boys were downright insane.

  Back then, Crow thought he had what it took to ride the lightning and get all the pretty girls cheering. His long raven-wing hair knotted in two thick braids, his grandfather’s wide black-and-white Orca headband, bronzed skin and damn-near Hollywood good looks gave him every advantage.

  All he was missing was talent and the sheer buck-stupid lack of self-preservation it took to try and make a living in eight-second increments on the back of an 1,800-pound Brahma that wants nothing more than to step on your skull and spray your brains in the dirt.

  He got bucked off so many times that the only purse he ever took home was Delilah. Short, sassy and with a dimpled smile that could part clouds, Delilah nursed his bruises, knit his bones and made his body tingle. Later, she bore him two beautiful daughters, neither of whom had even seen a real Brahma bull never mind tried to ride one.

  The biggest beast Crow straddled now was the padded driver’s seat of a 28,000-pound, forty passenger, diesel-electric bus.

  Crow slapped the steering wheel of his truck again and raised his voice to sing the chorus of Joe Nichols’ Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.

  Mercifully, he was riding alone.

  Before his off-key rendition could shatter glass and assault the night air, it was interrupted by the vibration of his cellphone.

  He dug the small silver phone out of his shirt pocket, glanced at the Caller ID and winced. He switched off the radio and answered the call.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Where the hell did you run off to?”

  “Didn’t you get my note?”

  “I got your damn note. Here, let me read it to you. ‘Gone out’. What kinda note is that?”

  “Short and sweet. Just like you.”

  “Don’t . . .”

  Crow heard it in her voice. The tiniest pause; the smallest rumble of laughter. Delilah wasn’t as angry as she was making out. He guessed he should have talked to her instead of leaving a note, but the girls were acting all moody and whispery and had trapped their mom in the bathroom for some big powwow over something they didn’t want him to share in.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry, but you and the girls were in some big discussion and I didn’t know how to help and—”

  Delilah laughed.

  “Do you know what we were talking about?” she asked.

  “Well, no, but I knew it was probably something girly and—”

  “Menstruation.”

  Crow blanched. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, ‘Oh’.” Delilah’s imitation of him made Crow sound like Fred Flintstone. “One of the girls’ friends had an embarrassing accident at school, and they’re both getting to the age when they need to be prepared. At least the school seemed to handle it with some sensitivity, which makes me happy. In my day—”

  “We should have had boys,” interrupted Crow. Not that a discussion of reproductive cycles made him squeamish — he had been in the delivery room with her both times, and that kinda kills squeamish forever — it was just, well . . . he loved that Delilah was a woman, for all the obvious reasons, but he didn’t really need reminding of all the ins and outs that entailed.

  “Uh-huh. You think boys would have been easier?”

  Crow shrugged, then remembered Delilah couldn’t see him.

  “Maybe not easier,” he said, “but less—”

  “If you say gross, I’ll scream.”

  “Complicated,” said Crow, sounding defensive. “I was gonna say complicated.”

  “And you think teenage boys jerking off in their bed sheets twenty times a day is less complicated—”

  Crow cringed. “Now who’s getting gross?”

  Delilah laughed again. She had always loved to make him squirm. And she was a master at it.

  “Where are you anyway?” she asked.

  “Wallace asked me to look after the house.”

  “Wallace? I thought he and Alicia were only going away for the weekend?”

  “Yeah, but there’s been a stray cat hanging around the garden shed and the dummy wants to make sure it gets fed. He didn’t want to leave food out ’cause the Raccoons would get it all.”

  “What’s he need a cat for? Aren’t two boys enough?”

  “Beats me,” said Crow. “I told him he should take the garden hose to it, but you know these white men. All soft in the head.”

  “But not white girls, right?”

  “Well, now that you mention it—”

  “Hey!”

  Crow grinned. “You
know it’s more your forked tongue that kept me on the Rez.”

  Delilah nearly purred. “Well why don’t you turn the truck around and we’ll put that to the test.”

  Crow grinned wider. “I’m almost at Wallace’s. Let me feed the damn cat and then I’ll head straight home.”

  “Wake me if I’m asleep.”

  “Count on it.”

  Crow hung up the phone and turned off the main road into the quiet cul-de-sac where his best friend had lived for the last ten years.

  An unexpected sight caused him to slam on his brakes. The front tires squealed in protest and the old Ford’s chassis shuddered.

  Four police cars blocked the way, their red and blue flashers near-blinding in the dark.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wallace rode alone in the rear bench of a four-door cruiser that smelled of strong disinfectant and the lingering remains of violently disgorged stomach acid.

  Bellingham lay behind him.

  Ahead, dark sky and empty road.

  The officers’ jurisdiction had ended miles back, but Wallace knew better than to broach the subject.

  A welded tubular steel barrier separated Wallace from the uniformed driver and his olive-skinned passenger.

  The barrier was overkill.

  Wallace’s hands were cuffed behind his back and every nerve in his body still trembled from the sharp, muscle-numbing jolt of the patrolman’s hand-held Taser.

  His throat was raw from arguing, from demanding that they do their damn job and find his family.

  Fuck the photo.

  Fuck how it looked.

  Fuck—

  That’s when the patrolman had stepped in with a paralyzing 50,000-volt dose of shut the fuck up.

  Detective Stacey turned around in her seat and moved her gum from cheek to cheek, pressing it against the walls of her mouth with her tongue.

  Wallace met her gaze and held it. He refused to blink or turn away.

  She’d probably enjoyed it when he collapsed on the floor of the security office and writhed in agony as his nervous system went into arrest. From her deductions, she believed he deserved it — and more.