Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“Isn’t that enough for one day?”

“Be a man, Baptiste. You’re acting like Alain’s going to bite your head off because you couldn’t save his brother from slipping on some ice.”

“Fuck, Sara… you don’t know what happened out there. He didn’t slip… I hit him.”

“What do you mean? You got into a fight with him?”

“He was drunk… he was angry… I just wanted to stop him from going at Graham. I hit him the wrong way. Obviously I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“ Mon dieu, Baptiste…”

She looked down at her hands.

I wanted to reach out and touch them, but it didn’t feel like the right moment.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe you lied to me.”

“I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“That doesn’t matter. You can’t be keeping secrets from me. That’s not allowed.”

“Not allowed?”

“I won’t accept that from you. Do you understand me?”

“I understand.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

She wrapped her arm around me. “Does Alain know what really happened?”

“No… and I don’t think there’s a reason to tell him.”

I gritted my teeth and waited for the argument.

“You’re right,” she said. “There’s no reason. As long as you’re okay with him not knowing.”

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.