Regan Wolfrom - After The Fires Went Out - Coyote

I nodded. “There’s a lot about Marc that I’ll bet he doesn’t know.”

“Like what?”

“I think Marc and Justin were at it again. They took supplies from the Lamarches.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“How did they know the Lamarches had left? How come they didn’t tell us?”

“We all had a feeling they’d left.”

“But Fiona’s had that breadmaker for how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“They didn’t tell us about the Lamarches because they were involved.”

“You think they made a deal.”

“Those assholes cornered the market. The only guys north of Timmins who could sneak people across our territory. They were just using us.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“How can I give Alain my sympathy when his brother deserved what he got?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t know.”

“You will.” She leaned in and gave me a kiss.

Then she turned off the water and grabbed a towel.

Today is Sunday, December 23rd.

Zach Walker’s memorial service was today.

Sara and I went, with our body armour stowed and my SIG and belt on; Fiona had wanted to go, but I told her it wasn’t worth the risk. She gave me a full dose of teenage indignation, but she eventually stormed off and let it drop.

We took the gravel truck, even though we have less than a quarter tank left; I know there are three crews out there who want me dead, and their Toyotas would be tough to handle with a wooden cart and two tired horses.

Sara and I arrived at the Walker’s rail bridge around a half hour early, which was later than she’d wanted and earlier than I’d hoped for; the last thing I need is awkward conversations with grieving Walkers.

We parked the truck and got out, the two men at the bridgehead nodding as we walked by. I didn’t recognize either of them, and I was surprised that they hadn’t said anything about the gunbelt.

“You’ll do the talking,” I said to Sara as we crossed the frozen Frederickhouse river; we’d never been allowed to cross the river before.

“This isn’t that hard,” she said. “Just look sad and nod and be prepared to hug people you’d never hug in real life.”

I groaned.

“This is important,” she said.

“I know.”

There was a white tent set up on the West bank of the river, one of those tents you’d use for a wedding.

Livingston was standing by the white plastic door. Sad country music was floating out from inside.

“Ms. Vachon,” he said. “Baptiste…”

“I’m sorry, Fisher,” Sara said. She reached out and gave him a hug.

“Thank you.”

“How are they?”

“Not bad.”

“That’s good.”

Livingston turned to me and offered his hand.

I shook it and gave my best sad and sympathetic face.

“I appreciate you guys coming,” he said.

I nodded.

He motioned for us to walk inside.

Sara took me by the hand and led me in.

There were dozens of chairs set up, maybe over a hundred, and most were taken. Over half of the Marchands were there, as were Gerald Archibald and what looked like over a dozen people from New Post.

I was starting to wonder if we should have brought a few more bodies.

Eva Marchand waved us over, and the mass of her family shifted over to open two seats to her right. Sara sat next to her, and I took the next chair over.

“It’s good to see you two,” she said. “ C’est terrible. Are you okay, Baptiste?”

I nodded.

“I heard it was an ambush.”

“Not quite,” I said. “I made a series of bad decisions.”

“It’s not your fault.” She said it in a way that made it clear that it was.

“Are the Girards not here?” Sara asked.

“Not yet,” Eva said. “No one’s been able to reach them.”

“They might be out of fuel,” I said. “We’re certainly running low.”

“We’ll swing by on our way home,” Sara said.

I wasn’t going to argue with her in front of Eva Marchand and everyone else.

I felt the draft of an open door.

I turned to look, expecting to see a handful of Girards.

Instead I saw Ryan Stems.

I stood up and pulled my gun.

“Baptiste,” Sara said. “Don’t…”

“No guns,” Livingston called out. “Please.”

Stems wasn’t holding a gun.

I wasn’t even sure he was armed.

I put my SIG back in its holster. “What’s he doing here?” I asked.

“Apology accepted,” Stems said.

The Marchands started shifting seats again. One for Stems, and one for his latest companion, a young native woman. Much too young for him.

Stems sat down beside me.

“Mr. Jeanbaptiste,” he said.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“To pay my respects. Like you.”

“Do you have any respect to give?” I felt Sara’s elbow. I ignored it. “You’ve got some nerve coming here, Stems.”

“No more than you.”

Sara cupped a hand over my knee and leaned in. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Stems,” she said. She smiled at the young woman on the other side of him. “I’m Sara Vachon. From McCartney Lake.”

“Sorry,” Stems said. “This is my beautiful wife, Anna.”

“How many ‘wives’ do you have?” I asked.

“Baptiste,” Sara said. “Don’t…”

“Just the one,” Stems said with a grin. “How ‘bout you?”

“ Pardon, ” Eva Marchand said, “I did not invite you to sit with me so you can create a scene.”

“Sorry,” Sara said.

“I’m sorry as well,” Stems said.

I groaned.

“Are you still living over in Smooth Rock Falls?” Sara asked.

“We are,” Stems said. “Anna’s family lives in Kapuskasing, so we try to visit them when we can.”

“Taking any field trips to Silver Queen Lake?” I asked.

“Come on, Baptiste,” he said, “you’re smarter than this.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know it wasn’t me. This is the first time this year I’ve crossed the Driftwood River.”

“Sure…I’ll just start taking you at your word, then…like it’s worth anything.”

“Robert, please,” Eva said. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“I think we should find another place to sit,” I said.

I stood up.

Sara didn’t.

I glared at her.

“Find a place in the back,” Sara said. “Maybe stand with Livingston by the door.”

As I walked away, the Marchands all shifted back a seat.

The Walkers came in a few minutes later, sitting down in the empty rows at the front. Katie was walking with Sky, who had his arm around her.

Dave Walker looked around after he sat, over to the back row where I was sitting, but I couldn’t tell if he noticed me. I’m not sure he was noticing anything, really.

Once the family was seated, Livingston walked up the aisle.

I expected him to sit with the Walkers.

He walked up the front and turned to address us all.

“There is nothing more heartbreaking than the loss of a loved one,” he said, “especially when that loss is sudden and the loved one has so much life left to live. Zach was a good guy. That’s the consensus. And all of us are a little less whole without him.”