Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“This isn’t the same thing,” I said.

“You’re right. This time we know that there’s no upside to second chances. This time it ends with a bullet to the brain. Now either shoot this asshole or give me your gun and I’ll do it myself.”

“Shit, Justin.”

“Don’t make me bash this fucker’s head in with a rock.”

I was losing control. “What the fuck is this? Do you think you can manipulate me into shooting someone?”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you… I’m giving you the facts. Only two of us are getting back in that car.”

“Not a chance,” I said. “We’re taking him to Aiguebelle.”

“We need to kill him.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” I grabbed Caleb and steered him back toward the road. “We’re better than that. We’re not murderers.”

“Fuck this shit,” Justin muttered as he began to follow behind. He was pissed.

I was getting used to it. It’s easier to keep track of the precious few who still like me than try to count all the people who want to feed me to the coyotes.

I saw movement from the corner of my eye.

Justin grabbed Caleb’s shoulder and pulled him backward.

I figured he was about to throw a punch. I threw my arm out, trying to grab his left elbow. It wouldn’t stop his right from swinging, but I hoped it’d throw off his aim.

I wasn’t able to stop it. Justin took Caleb down with the first blow. He started kicking him as I tried to pull him off.

“Come on, Justin,” I said. “This is crazy.”

He turned and gave me a shove. “You gonna stop me, Baptiste?”

It was a good question. I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m done with this,” Justin said. He started marching back toward the car.

I knelt down and worked to help Caleb to his feet. He slowly staggered up onto his knees. He was dazed; I’m sure the hood over his head wasn’t helping.

We were far enough from home.

I started to loosen the string that held the bag around his neck.

I heard Justin open his trunk.

I turned around to see the hunting rifle.

He was aiming it at Caleb, who was still on his knees and still blind.

“Don’t do it,” I said, trying to block the shot and hoping that would actually work to dissuade him from pulling the trigger.

He fired once.

Caleb fell back down.

A bullet to the brain.

Blood and grey matter on my pants.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I asked. I pulled my gun and pointed it at Justin’s head.

“I’m the guy who handles shit. You can call me Justin.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke.”

“This whole world is a fucking joke. Just look around you.”

I was angry; I wanted to kill him.

I could say that Caleb got loose somehow, that he’d pulled my gun and shot Justin before I had a chance to react.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I said.

“I told you I was going to do it.”

“You’re a goddamn psychopath.”

“Don’t call me that. I did this to keep my family safe. And to keep you guys safe, too, Baptiste. Don’t you dare treat me like a criminal.”

“Then stop killing people.”

“Do you know the difference between you and me? Aside from the fact that I’ve accepted that I’m an asshole, while you’re still trying to be something else.” He paused for a second. “No, don’t worry… I’ll tell you.”

“Just shut the hell up.”

“No. This is important. The difference between us. When I get home tonight I’ll tuck my kids into bed and then I’ll fuck my wife up the poop chute. When you get home you’ll start thinking about how your wife and daughter are dead, and how you don’t even know where they’re buried or even how they died. How is that anything but the biggest goddamn joke in the whole fucking universe?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’ll change your mind about this,” he said. “It was him or us, Baptiste. That’s how it goes these days.”

“I don’t see how I can trust you after this.”

“You’re going to have to trust me. With that gimp heart of yours, it won’t be long before you’re dead and buried beside Ant and I’m the only one left to take care of things. Sara’s going to depend on me. You realize that, right? Kayla and Fiona, too. Shit, Baptiste… I’m all you’ve got.”

I lowered the gun. I wasn’t about to use it.

I still needed him.

I didn’t tell anyone the truth about tonight.

Once we got back to McCartney Lake, I waited in the car outside the Porters’ cottage.

Justin lent me a pair of clean pants and dropped me off at home.

Fiona was waiting downstairs, goofing around on her tablet. She asked me if I’d talked to anyone from Aigubelle at the gate at Eades Junction, if I’d had a chance to ask if they had any of those artisan breadmakers to trade; I told her that there were two constables at the gate but that they said they didn’t have time to talk. Even if we’d gotten all the way there, I still wouldn’t have asked about a goddamn breadmaker. It’s not like Aiguebelle trades with people like us anyway.

“I was worried about Justin at first,” she told me. “That he wasn’t good for us. But I’m glad there’s another person around who has enough training to… you know… back you up or whatever.”

I smiled and nodded; I was tempted to tell her the truth, to let her know that her instincts had been right, but I didn’t.

It’s enough for me to know what he’s capable of.

And I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d done nothing to stop him.

That I don’t really have a handle on Justin Porter.

There’s no good that can come from telling people that.

Today is Saturday, December 8th.

Since Graham had a rabbit’s foot and four leaf clover shoved somewhere between his close-cropped hipster asscheeks, we decided this morning to cross the river to find more batteries. Because we weren’t going to be getting too close to Cochrane, it was a tough call whether we should take the truck or the horses.

In the end, my Scottish half won out and we hitched up the cart.

After passing through the gate and putting on our vests and helmets, we turned and headed south on Comel Road, just in from the banks of the Abitibi. There never was much of anything down there, just one house and an old rail siding; this part of the district emptied out long before the fires came, and now the only people who use that road use it to access the old rail bed that leads across the river to New Post.

“This place always creeps me out,” Graham said as we passed a large expanse of burnt forest.

“You should be used to seeing this kind of stuff,” I said.

“I’m not talking about the fires… these empty gravel roads. Every square inch of Ontario looks like the setting for a horror movie.”

“You don’t have gravel roads in Illinois?”

“Not like these, no.” He grinned at me. “I come from a more civilized part of the world, you know.”

“I come from the centre of the universe,” I said. “We pave our roads in Toronto, too.”