13 Days of Terror Read online

  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:

  [email protected]

  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.

  Pittman picked at the beer label. He grabbed two beers out of the cooler and handed one to Hirsch. It was now or never. “What if we could strike back?”

  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.