13 Days of Terror
Dwayne Clayden
Bad Alibi Press
Copyright © 2020 Dwayne E. Clayden
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at:
dwayneclayden@gmail.com
DwayneClayden.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Published in Canada by Bad Alibi Press
Printed and Bound in Canada
Cover Graphic by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers
Editing by Taija Morgan
Proofing by Jonas Saul
Formatting by Dwayne Clayden
13 Days of Terror/ Dwayne Clayden—1st print ed.
ISBN: 978-1-989912-02-7 (pbk), 978-1-989912-03-4 (e-book)
Created with Vellum
For Calgary Police Service
Recruit Class 74
My career started with great friends.
Also by Dwayne Clayden
The Brad Coulter Thrillers
Crisis Point
Outlaw MC
Wolfman is Back
13 Days of Terror
The Brad Coulter Thrillers Continue in 2021
Goddess of Justice
Bonded Labor
The Speargrass Thriller Series
Speargrass Opioid
Speargrass Casino
Short Story
Hell Hath No Fury
AB Negative. An Anthology of Alberta Crime
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
To The Reader
About the Author
Chapter One
Wednesday Day One
Gunfire echoed along the forestry cutline. Tall evergreens and golden-red deciduous trees lined the makeshift gun range. Massive towers held sagging transmission lines. Shafts of wild grass, sapped of life by the fall frost, formed a golden carpet.
Marvin Pittman and Logan Hirsch stood side by side, rifles at their shoulders as they fired at targets a hundred yards away. They reloaded and shot again. When they emptied their magazines, they set the guns down and jogged to the targets.
Pittman, at thirty-five, was seven years older than Hirsch, but he ran like he was sixty. Where Pittman had a stocky build, Hirsch was slim, on the verge of scrawny.
Pittman stopped at the targets, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Finally, he stood, wiped his hand across his sweating forehead and balding scalp, and stared at his target. “Shit.”
Hirsch glanced over and laughed. “Looks like you used a shotgun, not a rifle.”
“Jeez,” Pittman said. “You put twenty shots in the chest from a hundred yards. Where did you learn to shoot like this?”
“I grew up in Grande Prairie. From about the time I was six, I went hunting with my dad and uncles. We hunted everything—deer, elk, moose. Bear, sometimes. Dad said I was a natural shooter.”
“I’d say so. Put up some new targets and let’s go again.”
An hour later they sat on some tree stumps and cleaned the guns. Pittman wandered over to his truck and came back with a cooler. He pulled out two beers, handed one to Hirsch, and they guzzled.
“That hit the spot,” Hirsch said. “You plan for everything.”
“I try,” Pittman said. “I needed that.”
“No, shit.” Hirsch stretched his long legs and yawned.
“Shooting is cleansing, peaceful.” Pittman closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. “I love fall. I could sit here all day.”
“A lot better than employment training. If I have to attend another week, I might blow my brains out.” Hirsch mimicked the instructor in a high-pitched voice, saying, “Now that you know what to put in a résumé, it’s time to put that into practice. Use the notebook to create your résumé. Just put up a hand if you need my help.” Hirsch drained his beer and threw the bottle into the trees. “Treating us like stupid kids.”
“Have another beer, or three. You’ll feel better.”
“It will take more than beer,” Hirsch said. “The economy is in the shitter and my life is worse than that.”
“What’s happening with your family?”
“When the bank foreclosed on the house, the wife and kids went to stay with her parents in Whitecourt. We were talking by phone every day for about a month. But when I didn’t find work, she stopped talking. Like it was my fault. She filed for divorce two months ago. Wants full custody of the kids.”
“Shit, that hurts. You gonna fight it?”
“Sure, I’ll just take money out of my savings account and hire a good lawyer. Other than the cash they pay us for retraining, I don’t have two nickels to rub together. Even if I fought it, I have no job and no prospects. The lawyers would get rich. I’d still be divorced and still not see my kids. The system is screwed.”
“How do you feel about this re-training?”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” Hirsch said. “It’s all bullshit. You and me know how to drill an oil well. I don�
��t want to be some parts guy in an automotive store or a stock boy in some hardware chain.”
Pittman emptied his beer, tossed it into the trees next to Hirsch’s, and grabbed another. Pittman’s leg vibrated. He had to be patient and lead Hirsch to the solution. “Don’t know what to say. The oil industry is dying. Maybe it will come back in a few years. That doesn’t help us today.”
“That’s the problem,” Hirsch said. “No one is helping us. The bank didn’t give me a break or time to figure things out. I missed three payments and boom, they’re in court and taking the house. Fuckin’ Ford dealership took my truck.”
“We get laid off with one month’s pay while the oil executives keep their jobs, get their high salaries and bonuses,” Pittman said. “How can they earn bonuses when the industry is in shambles? Then they lay off half their staff. The big wigs need to feel our pain.” Pittman glanced at Hirsch, watching for a reaction. Hirsch didn’t take the bait.
“Fat chance of that happening. They’ve closed ranks. They have the money to wait this out. We don’t.” Hirsch grabbed another beer and stared at the targets. “You got family?”
Pittman shook his head. “Not no more. I’ve been through this before. About ten years ago, things got really bad. I got laid off, but I got a job at a well-servicing company in Calgary. Did that for about five years. I hated it, but it paid the bills. Then my old lady found religion. She was off to church meetings all the time, Bible study at our house. I had to drink beer in the garage. Then she took off with a bus driver she met at church. He promised he’d save her and give her everything she wanted.”
“Jeez, I didn’t know.” Hirsch scratched the patchy blond stubble on his face. “Sorry.”
“They hate each other and he’s dirt poor. But God will provide. That’ll teach her.” Pittman twirled his beer, then took a long pull. “Jobs were opening up here again, so I came back. Just in time for another fuckin’ collapse.”
“Neither of us got any luck.” Hirsch finished his beer.
Hirsch cocked his head, eyebrows scrunched. “You have an idea?”
Pittman picked up his rifle and pointed it down the meadow. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”
Chapter Two
Brad Coulter sat back in the recliner, arms across his chest, and stared at the stupid paintings on the wall. Why did shrinks think abstract pictures of nothing but color on a canvas was soothing? Or maybe that wasn’t the point. Perhaps they just had shitty taste in art. How about a beautiful sunset? Lovely white sand beach and deep blue water? Dogs playing poker?
He glared at the man seated opposite.
Twice a week Brad met with a psychologist appointed by the police service. If he had any hope of getting back on the street as a detective in Homicide, this guy would make the decision.
“Brad,” Dr. Hans Keller said. “Sitting there, arms crossed and ignoring me, won’t get you to work any faster.”
Brad hardened his glare.
Keller leaned back. “Fine. I can sit here for the next hour and watch you pout. They pay me either way.”
The two men stared at each other for several moments.
Brad leaned forward. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve made it clear I want back on the street. You’ve made it clear you don’t think I’m ready. I’ve taken every psychological test invented. They don’t say I’m violent. They don’t say I’m a danger to myself or others. They say I’m depressed. No kidding. Because of me, my girlfriend and our unborn baby died. You never get over that.”
Keller steepled his fingers in front of his face. “No, you don’t get over it. You move ahead.”
“Being a cop, that’s what I need. Do some good for others, not just me.” Brad had been a cop in Calgary since he was twenty-four. Starting as a street cop, he quickly worked his way up the ranks through the tactical support unit, to sergeant in charge of a tactical team, and at thirty-two, a detective. He didn’t know how to sit at home doing nothing, and after two-and-a-half months it was taking its toll.
“Tell me how you felt when you killed Wolfe.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this story a hundred times. I felt nothing. I’d wasted a piece of shit hell-bent on killing people. People close to me.”
“You weren’t glad he was dead?”
“I was glad he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. But I was wrong.”
Keller cocked his head. “How so?”
“He was dead, but it didn’t end there. Maggie and the baby died. It was like he was mocking me from hell. In the end, he won.”
“Do you always think in terms of winning and losing?”
“I lost Maggie and the baby.” Brad leaned forward and stabbed a finger at Keller. “That’s losing.”
“You’re competitive.”
“That makes me good at what I do. That’s why you need to end these stupid sessions and clear me to go back to work.”
“You think you’re mentally prepared to return to duty?”
Keller’s monotone voice did nothing to calm Brad. “Damn right.”
“How about physically?”
“My wounds have healed. I did physiotherapy and I work out every day.”
“Yes. I see the results of your workout. You lost some weight, too?”
Brad had always been athletic and played university football. On the tactical support unit, he’d worked out with the team and was in excellent physical condition. But over the last two months he’d taken workouts to a new level. His six-foot-one body was defined and fat free.
“Sure, but what does that have to do with going back to work?”
“I need to be sure you aren’t using your workouts as a crutch, as an escape.”
“I give up.” Brad threw up his hands and leaned back. “No matter what I do, it’s not good enough or the right thing.” He stood. “Tell me, Doc, was your wife murdered? The woman you love? How about your kids? Any of them murdered by a psychopathic killer?” Brad glared at Keller. “Didn’t think so. Keep your textbook psychobabble to yourself. I’m outta here.”
“If you leave, I have to put it in my report.”
Brad stopped at the door. “Doc, it would help if I knew what your objective is—this seems like playing games—mind games. If you want to toss around a football, give me a call. That I understand.”
Keller leaned back in his chair, his face expressionless.
Brad shook his head and yanked the door closed behind him.
Brad unlocked the door and found Lobo sitting on a mat, tail wagging. Brad knelt. “Hello, buddy. I missed you. I had another fun hour with Dr. Keller. I think I screwed up today.”
Lobo cocked his head to the side and barked.
“Apparently, there are things you should merely think, not say out loud. Getting back to work will be a challenge. I’ll just spend extra time with you.”
Lobo licked his face, then lifted a paw.
“Most people would think you were happy to see me. But I know you want a treat.”
Lobo raced to the pantry and sat by the door. Brad opened the door and pulled out two treats. Lobo sat and lifted his paw again. Brad knelt and gave Lobo a biscuit. Brad tried to get Lobo to lift his other paw. Nope. Lobo was a right-pawed dog. Brad shook the paw and offered a second treat.
Brad stood and noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. The counter showed eight messages.
“Hey, Brad, it’s Sam. I’m sure you’re there listening. Just pick up the phone. Okay, ignore me. Look, Charlie and I are worried about you. Time to get together for drinks. Charlie even said he’d buy. Don’t be a jerk. At least call me.”
Brad erased the message. His best friend, Sam Steele, had been calling all week. He knew Sam meant well and was concerned. For the first few weeks, it had been okay hanging out with Sam and Charlie Zerr. They had becom
e friends four years ago when the Tactical Support Unit was created, and they’d been inseparable. But something changed—Maggie was killed. And because of that, Brad had changed, he’d aged. He was thirty-two but mentally felt fifty. Sam at twenty-eight and Charlie at twenty-six seemed too young to hang around with. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be around people, even his friends. He liked the solitude and didn’t want the company. He was okay with it just being Lobo and him.
He hit the button and the next recording started. “Dipshit. It’s Devlin. Call me or I’ll come over and kick in the door. And no, I’m not afraid of your mutt. Call me, jackass.”
Jeez. Brad erased that message and stared at the machine. Tommy Devlin was another of the original TSU, but his real love was the narcotics unit. Earlier this year they’d battled a psychotic ex-biker named Jeter Wolfe—Wolfman. He severely injured Devlin and kidnapped and murdered his partner Tina Davidson the same night. Devlin was still recovering. He’d never work on the street again, but Deputy Chief Archer had sent him to Quantico to learn hostage negotiation.