Regan Wolfrom: After The Fires Went Out: Coyote

“Morphine,” Livingston said. “And he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“You sent him to find me?” I asked.

“Matt said you told him not to,” Kayla said.

“Can you send these men away?” Livingston asked.

“We’re ordered to check each cottage on McCartney Lake,” the sergeant said.

“Please,” Kayla said, “go ahead. Our people are in the first cottage, right at the junction. And one on the line.”

“Why are you here?” I asked her. “You’re supposed to be on your way to Quebec.”

She smiled and gave me a kiss. “No one listens to you, Baptiste. Haven’t you figured that out?”

Kayla helped me out of Livingston’s ham-mobile once we reached the cottage. It wasn’t too bad as long as I didn’t try to use my left leg that much.

“I have something else,” Livingston said.

“Tell me it’s more morphine,” I said.

“You can’t be angry with me, okay? I had to do it like this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He walked over the trunk and opened it.

“Ugh,” he said. “I’m not sure if she’s sleeping, or…”

Kayla helped me over to the back of the car.

It was Sara.

She was lying in the trunk, her eyes closed. She had a large rag stuffed into her mouth and wrapped with duct tape. Her wrists were bound behind her with tape. Her ankles were bound as well.

The only thing she was wearing was a ripped and dirty white t-shirt with a faded Canadian flag dead center. She had nothing on below her waist.

Her skin was close to blue.

I pulled away from Kayla and leaned against the car.

“Get her out of there,” I said.

Kayla and Livingston lifted her from the trunk.

I wanted to take her, to carry her inside.

But I knew I couldn’t do it.

Kayla and Livingston brought her up onto the porch.

I hobbled behind, glad for the morphine but well aware that I was probably fucking my leg up that much more.

They brought her to the living room and laid her down on the couch. Kayla covered her half-naked body with a blanket.

I stumbled over and fell to my knees, leaning against the couch.

I put my hand on her cheek.

She was cold, but not that cold.

And I could feel the warmth of her breathing.

“What did you do to her?” I asked.

“I had to drug her. Didn’t know how much I needed. She had to look like she was close to death.”

“Fuck, Livingston…why?”

“There are five Mushkegowuk roadblocks between here and Kapuskasing. There’s only one between Kapuskasing and Timmins.”

“You took her to Timmins?”

“I forged two letters from the Council. One that told The Souls I was taking a runaway indenture back to Sudbury…that was for the first couple of checks. The other said I was bringing your beaten and violated stepsister from Sudbury up to you, so you could watch her die. After what you did to that roadblock on Highway 101…let’s just say they really liked that letter.”

“What if it hadn’t worked?” Kayla asked.

“She wanted to come home…she took the risk.”

“But why did you strip her naked?” I asked. “Why did you tie her up?”

“Because I’m an indenture. One indenture shows up with another indenture…it looks suspicious, like maybe we’re trying to run away together. But not if she looks like this.”

“Did she tell you to do this?” Kayla asked.

“She did,” he said. “She did.”

“If I find out you’re lying,” I said, “I’ll kill you.”

“I just saved your life. And probably hers.”

“And I’m grateful for that. But I’ll still kill you.”

He nodded.

“Where’s Matt?” I asked. “And Fiona?”

“Matt’s out on the line,” Kayla said. “Fiona and Gwyneth are out in the barn with the horses.”

“What line?”

“Ant’s stupid firebreak, remember? The one you told Matt to stop wasting his time on? He’s out looking for any sign that the fire crossed the highway and is heading towards us.”

“It’s still a stupid idea,” I said.

“I’m sure it is…” She bent down and gave me a kiss. “I’ll take care of Sara, Baptiste. You need to take care of yourself.”

There was an unevenness in her voice.

And tears in her eyes.

I struggled to get up.

I stood with most of my weight against the arm of the couch.

I took her hand.

I looked into her eyes. I wanted her to know that I still wanted her, that I still choose her. I wanted her to know that we hadn’t changed.

“Livingston can help you up to your room,” she said.

Today is Monday, January 28th.

Fiona found me a walking stick. That’s what I’m calling it, even if it looks a little too much like an old man’s cane.

When you’re over fifty, you tend to limp for a long while after getting your leg shot up. There’s two holes in it, now; I may be a gimp for the rest of my life.

Or maybe just a few weeks.

Who knows?

Livingston is sticking around for awhile; Stems sent his written request and Kayla wrote back with a denial, and we haven’t heard anything about it since. So he’s in Graham’s room for now.

The sergeant from Mushkegowuk, Sergeant Mullen, came by again on Sunday with a couple of soldiers from the Nation and said that they’d be regular visitors to our side of the river. They didn’t trust us to keep Detour Lake out of our backyard, and I saw no reason for them to change their opinion any time soon. No one is scared of me anymore. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve got an old man’s walking stick, or because the people who were so worried about me before have already been shot up by the other guy they didn’t trust.

A guy they haven’t caught.

Both Kayla and Fiona were expecting me to rail against the occupation, but I’ve made it my goal to not even think about that shit until sometime in February. Maybe after Valentine’s Day, assuming that Valentine’s Day is even a thing.

I’m tired and I’ve got a limp. I deserve a goddamn vacation.

Everyone’s back in one cottage now; Gwyneth put up a fuss, but when she realized that Fiona couldn’t be swayed, she sucked it up and moved in. She still disappears more than a regular human being, but she’s trying to treat me decent.

It doesn’t come regularly, but it’s better.

Kayla dropped in on Fiona and I as we worked on dinner. Somehow, the moment she came in I saw it as a disturbance; obviously I’d missed my kitchen time with Fiona Rees.

“I wanted to ask you about Justin,” she said.

“No small talk, eh?” I said.

“Sergeant Mullen said that Detour Lake says they don’t have him.”

“When were you talking to Sergeant Mullen?”

“Some people like talking to me.”

I ignored that. “Detour Lake says a lot of things. They say that they had nothing to do with the attack on New Post, that it was ‘individual actors’. That’s the fun of calling yourself an objectivist collective…you don’t have to take responsibility for anything.”