Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

Sara took her by the hand and led her back to the other Ford pickup.

“Hit the gunner,” I told Stems. “What about you guys?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “When the explosion happened, they just turned and drove off.”

“You just let them go?”

“Hey… we came to help you.”

“Help me with what? Counting the bodies?”

“Screw you, Baptiste. This is all on you. Running around like you think you’re a goddamn one-man army… what did you think would happen?”

“Harsh criticism coming from a murderer who fucks little girls.”

I felt an arm grab at my elbow.

Sara pushed her way in between us. “What the hell is wrong with you two?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Have you already forgotten what happened here? Mon dieu. ”

“Talk to your boyfriend,” Stems told her. “Tell him to go home and leave this to the professionals.”

“I’d choose Baptiste a thousand times over you,” she said. “I feel sorry for the people who’ve put their trust in you.”

“You’re just as delusional as he is. You two are beyond hope.”

Stems shook his head. He shoved the truck keys at Sara and walked back toward his own vehicle.

“That’s my body armour,” I said.

He started tearing it off, tossing each piece down into the snow.

Sara clasped my hand. “This wasn’t your fault,” she said.

I’m sure she was just trying to help.

Today is Monday, December 24th.

The one-man army took a day off today. I’ve done enough damage, I think.

Sara was insistent that we check on the Girards at least, if not the Marchands; I was equally insistent that we stop wasting fuel on ridiculous errands. After almost twenty minutes of bickering, some of which made both of us laugh, we compromised: we’d take the cart, only to the Girards and back, and Sara would wear the helmet and vest from the moment we crossed the Abitibi River.

I think she hates that armour more than the possibility of getting shot.

Last Christmas Eve Sara and I had taken the truck (the old truck that’s still sitting smashed-up at the airport) and gone to each family between us and the Walkers, dropping off little treats that Sara and Fiona had baked, along with some apple ice wine that I’ve never liked.

Fiona had even done up a funny little Christmas card for Sara to hand out, with a group photo and a modified quote from an old comedian: “Christmas at McCartney Lake is always at least six or seven times more pleasant than anywhere else. We start drinking early. And while everyone else is seeing only one Santa Claus, we’ll be seeing six or seven.” That’s not what you’d expect from a Mormon girl, but Fiona’s always been a little different.

Last Christmas Eve we spent seven hours on it, visiting around two dozen families. This year we can’t risk going out and visiting the last few families we still know about.

There were around fifty families left after The Fires went out; that was down from probably three hundred when the shit first slammed into the proverbial fan. At least fifty more had taken Livingston up on his death march to Temiskaming, with just enough setbacks and delays to put them in the middle of the worst place to be, at the worst time, of course.

I’d told them not to go; I knew what would happen.

I should have done more.

When we came to the junction off Menard Lake Road, the Girards’ wood and metal gate was left open, with no one in sight.

The Girards aren’t known for making mistakes like that.

“Do you think they’re okay?” Sara asked.

“I think they’ve left.”

I’ve probably run into Denis Girard and his brothers more than anyone else over the past couple of years, and they’ve always been among the best to talk to. Denis has told me before they’d never leave, and I’d always believed him.

“You want to check?” Sara said.

“I do.”

“Okay.”

We had the twelve gauge and my pistol, but I knew that Sara would never touch a gun. If we ran into trouble, like one or three gray Toyota Tundras with mounted machine guns, I’m pretty sure that trouble would be more than capable of outgunning me.

As much as Sara would support my decision, it wasn’t hard to tell that she was hoping I’d turn the cart around.

“We’ll come back on Boxing Day,” I said. “It’s Christmas Eve and I don’t feel like doing any heavy lifting.”

We rode back home as the sky grew dark, eating and drinking the gifts we no longer expected we’d be giving away.

I’d made sure not to have too much ice wine, which was helped by the taste of it, but Sara was getting pretty drunk.

“I loved Christmas,” she said as we made our way home.

“You don’t anymore?”

“What Christmas?”

“Come on… you can still find something to love about it. Ice wine?”

“I can drink ice wine anytime, Baptiste. We used to sneak it into school.”

“Elementary?”

“High school,” she said with what may have been a little burp. “I used to pour out bottles of apple juice and fill them up with the good stuff… you can’t really tell the difference unless you look really closely.”

“I would have loved to see Sara Vachon in high school.”

“Sure… perky breasts… well… they’re still pretty good.”

I laughed. “I know they are.”

“I wasn’t cool in high school, Baptiste. Not like now.”

I laughed again.

“What’s so funny?” she asked. “Anyway… I’d share the ice wine so people would like me more.”

“I’m sure they liked you enough.”

“They called me tampon.”

“What?”

“Vachon tampon … it rhymes.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I used to stick myself into the middle of things, always trying to keep the peace…”

“Used to?”

“Shut up. Sophie Minot used to tell me that whenever I showed up, I plugged up all the fun.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“She’s a bitch.” She sighed. “She was a bitch. I’m sure she’s dead now… I think she moved to Toronto.”

“Good riddance, I guess.”

“She wasn’t all bad. She had the tightest ass…”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Now don’t go and plug up all the fun.”

“I like you, Sara the Tampon.”

“That’s Vachon tampon to you.”

We found that everyone at the cottage had been drinking too, even Fiona, though she seemed aloof from the others, sitting at the dining room table and flipping through a magazine about cottages and whatever. Everyone else were carrying on in the living room, making enough noise that it sounded like there were fifty of them.

There was too much drinking. It wasn’t safe.

But I was too tired to be angry.

“Have a drink,” Kayla said as we came inside.

“The Girards are gone,” Sara said.

“They left just before Christmas?” Matt said. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

Sara threw her hands in the air, flopping them left and right before landing them on her hips. “I’m going to bed,” she said.

She started towards the stairs, her steps uneven. I wrapped my arm around her and helped her up the steps. I took her to her bedroom instead of mine, but found that Lisa had converted the second bed to a place to keep her clothes in neat little stacks.