by Ted Staunton
Jer shrugged. “Dark. He was already pretty gray when I met him.”
Deb came up from her office in the basement, carrying some exams she’d been marking. She’s a philosophy prof at York U. “What color was your dad’s hair?” Jer asked, brushing flour off his flannel shirt.
“And did he ever have a mustache?” I put in.
“Brown,” Deb said. “No mustache. He said he tried one in the war but it was a disaster. Why?”
I showed her the photo on the screen. “Bun thinks that’s Grandpa.”
Deb put on her glasses and peered. “Well, there’s a vague resemblance, but…” She shrugged. “Who is it?”
“Some mystery killer in the 60s,” I say. “In Pianvia. Europe, I mean. He killed a Pianvian guy who defected.”
Deb did a classic double take. Then she laughed. “Dream on, guys. Apart from the war, the closest Grandpa got to a killing was a good business deal.”
“Except for the ants,” Bun said.
“Right,” said Deb. “Remember I told you how he cornered the market on—”
“Souvenir snow globes for the ’72 Canada–Russia hockey series,” Jer finished for her. He pushed his bandanna higher up his forehead. Now he had flour all over it too.
Deb frowned. “Souvenir pucks, actually.”
“Right. And then there were the Chinese golf balls or whatever.”
“Ping-Pong balls. The golf balls were Cuban.”
“What about the wooden Frisbees?”
“Australian. Kind of like boomerangs. Okay, some were mistakes. But don’t knock it, buster. My dad built a solid import/export business and gave us a good life.”
“I’m not knocking anything,” Jer said. Actually, he was knocking butter and sugar and flour around in a bowl. “He did get around though. Maybe he was a secret agent.”
Deb laughed and swatted him with the exams. “Your grasp of logic and evidence is right up there with my students’.” Then she wiped flour off the exam papers.
And that was that, until our folks went away and we drove up to the cottage with DJ. Bun took his skates. I took the movie on my phone, because Bun wanted me to show the picture to everyone.
We got there first. Bun went outside to chop wood. DJ was at the door, giving orders and calling out to Adam and Webb, who’d just pulled in. I was laying a fire with the scraps of wood left inside from the fall. I grabbed the last piece, which was leaning up against the paneling by the fireplace. It stuck, which was weird. I yanked hard. It gave, and I tumbled backward with the wood and a square of paneling attached to it. A jumble of things spilled out from behind the panel, including a Walther PPK, James Bond’s weapon of choice.
FOUR
Everybody helped lay the stuff out on the kitchen table. There was money from all over the world, a net bag of golf balls with Russian printing, a cheesy wig and beard, passports from different countries with different names but all with Grandpa’s picture, a notebook and an envelope. On the front of the envelope you could read the imprint of some words: You are a traitor. You deserve to die.
You can see why everyone got a little crazy. DJ went ballistic when he saw the traitor note. In ten seconds flat, we’d all decided Grandpa was a spy. Then I wasn’t so sure. Grandpa D was more than a bit of a practical joker. He’d flip the plane upside down if you were flying with him, that kind of thing. In fact, for a while last summer I’d thought the adventure with Gloria Lorraine was a trick he’d set up too.
This was too perfect. DJ was paging through the notebook, saying, “The words don’t make sense,” and I said, “Maybe it’s secret code,” remembering the way Jer had teased Deb back at home.
“I think you’re right,” DJ said. He’s not wired for sarcasm. It didn’t matter, because that’s when the gun went off. That flipped all of us out.
“What do we do now?” Webb asked when things calmed down.
Bun made the only intelligent suggestion. “Maybe we should call our moms.” It was too late. DJ was already yelling and tearing apart the notebook, matching parts of it up with the passports.
“Okay, so they connect,” Webb said, still reasonable. “Now what?”
“Nothing,” Adam said. “Unless we’re going to all these places to figure it all out.”
Right, I thought. You go, boys.
I chipped in with, “Yeah! We have, like, whole hours before our parents would know we were gone!”
Turns out none of them were wired for sarcasm. Next thing you know, everyone was grabbing money and passports and notebook pages. I think Adam had a flight booked before I could open the potato chips.
Bun and I, naturally, weren’t going anywhere. Bun would have had a little trouble with borders, for one thing, and I was going to meet up with AmberLea.
“But the movie picture,” Bun said. “See? It fits. There’s a disguise kit.”
“That disguise stuff wouldn’t fool a four-year-old,” I said. “And his hair’s the wrong color. All those passports had photos of Grandpa the way he really looked. Plus, there was nothing about Pianvia. Anyway, they think he’s a spy, not a hit man. We’ll tell Mom about this stuff, like you said. That was a good idea. I bet it’s all junk from some spy-theme party Grandpa threw a million years ago.”
“What about the gun?”
“Maybe Grandpa got it when he flew bush planes in Africa. I dunno, Bun.”
And I really didn’t. When DJ dropped us off in Toronto, I said, “Guess you can’t hang with Bun this aft, huh?”
He gave me a get-real look. “I’ve got to scan and email this stuff to Steve in Spain. Then I’ve got a flight to London, Spence.”
“Right.”
His window hummed shut. We waved as he drove away. “Let’s go skating,” Bunny said.
FIVE
DECEMBER 28
I wake up to a blank laptop screen and the bleat of our landline. I stagger off the couch and find the phone in its cradle in the kitchen. On the way I catch a bleary glimpse of the time on the clock radio: 8:03 AM. Sickeningly early. Ever since classes ended, I’d forgotten this time existed. I’m going to start a religion that bans getting up before noon on holidays. Maybe it would be a good fit for Pianvia. Everything else is banned there.
I hit the Talk button mid-bleat. “Hello?” I sound as if I’ve been gargling with those Russian golf balls.
“Roz Inbow here. Who am I speaking with, please?” Forget the “please”; the voice has all the cozy charm of a falling anvil. Roz. Instantly I’m awake, remembering last night. Unfortunately, I’m not awake enough to keep from blurting, “Spencer.”
“Bernard’s brother. Let me speak to Bernard, please.”
“Uh, it’s awfully early.”
“It’s way past the time he’s used to. Let me speak to him, please.”
“Just a sec.”
I climb the stairs with the phone on Mute. My heart is pounding, but not from the climb. Bun’s door is half open. I have no idea what time I dozed off, but I know he wasn’t back then. He’d better be here now. I have no clue what I’m going to tell Roz if he isn’t.
Roz, if you haven’t guessed, is Bun’s CRAP release supervisor. She can yank him back to Creekside and add more time to his sentence if he screws up—like by hanging with his street posse or not checking in.
I look in Bun’s room: empty. Oh. No. If things were halfway normal around here, I’d be handing this off to Deb or Jer. Scratch that. I wouldn’t even be up. But things aren’t normal. I try the only thing I can think of: I imitate Jer. People tell me I sound like him on the phone. Of course, the last time I pretended to be someone else, it almost got four people and a dog killed. I do a frantic throat-clear—la-la-la count to ten—to ditch the Russian golf balls. Then I lift the phone again and try to mellow it out. “Hello?”
“I’m calling for Bernard,” Roz’s voice clangs. “Who am I speaking to, please?”
“This is”—throat clear—“Jerry O’Toole, Bun—Bernard’s father. What can I do for you?”
&nb
sp; “Roz Inbow here. I need to speak to Bernard. He was due for a ten-PM check-in call last night that he failed to complete.”
“Riiiiight. Well, we were having some family time last night, Roz, and I guess we all forgot. My bad. But he’s right here, sound asleep. The Monopoly game ran a little late. I’m just up myself. How ’bout I have him call you later?”
There’s a pause at the other end. Maybe Roz is swallowing a nail or two. Then I hear a sigh and she says, “By ten o’clock. At the latest. You have the number.”
“Cool. Sure do. I’ll make sure he calls. Have a good one.”
“Uh-huh. Oh, and Mister O’Toole? I thought you were away.”
“Just back,” I say fast, and I hit the Off button before I get in any deeper.
But I am in deeper, aren’t I? Now I’ve really got to find Bunny. I check my phone for messages. There’s one from AmberLea last night—meet hotel lobby @1. Nothing from Bun. I call his cell: no answer. I text, call me NOW then call roz b4 trubl.
I deal with an urgent need to pee and then go back to the kitchen. I put in toast, pour juice and think about my next move. Bun’s already messed up my time with AmberLea; she’s only here a few days.
Sipping juice, I stare dully at the back-door jumble of shoes and boots. I look a little closer, then go down the hall and look at the front-door jumble. Bunny’s skates aren’t there. His boots are. All he’s got are the boots, which he never wears, and the sneakers I brought back from the rink. He couldn’t have come home and left still wearing skates. Could he? Then why was the door unlocked? A prickle runs up my neck. I look around again. Last night’s plain old mess turns sinister. Why was Deb’s rocker on the dining-room table? Why was sheet music scattered around the room? Did someone break in and search the place? But who? And for what? Nothing seems to be missing—except Bunny and his blades. Which means either he’s still wearing them or he got shoes someplace else.
The toaster dings in the kitchen. The only place I can think Bunny might be is where the Fifteenth Street Posse hangs. Oh, great. On the other hand, I’m so creeped-out thinking someone might have searched the house that a little outing might be nice. If I can’t find Bun, I’ll call Deb on her cruise. Jer’s cell service is useless on Salt Spring Island.
I crunch down the toast, change my T-shirt (did I really leave my room this messy?), get my curling sweater and grab the keys to the minivan from their hook in the kitchen. Jer said the van was for emergencies only; I’d say this counts. On the way out, I double-check that the door locks behind me. Then I go looking for my brother.
SIX
When I finally get the van started (the O’Toolemobile is not exactly an Aston Martin), I drive west, then south to Lake Shore. It’s not far, really. The Fifteenth Street Posse hangs at a gym on guess which street? I drove by it once with Jer when Bun was on trial.
The closer I get, the sketchier things seem: empty storefronts, a Goodwill, a muffler-repair shop, corner variety stores. I turn down Fifteenth Street. There’s a Domino’s pizza place with a sagging Christmas wreath. Next to it is the gym, a brick box with no doors or windows to the street. It’s been tagged all over, including with a striped 15. I pass an alleyway on the far side. A police cruiser is slowly rolling up it. There must be a door down there somewhere. I pull over beside a sign that says SCHOOL CROSSING 30 km. Ahead, the street is lined with matchbox-sized houses, their roof lines as saggy as the Christmas wreath. Then come a couple of low-rise apartment buildings. A few balconies are strung with Christmas lights or stars. Some are still lit. They flap and flicker in the breeze, as if they’re about to be blown out. Beyond that is the lake, gray as the pavement and sky.
I don’t get out. Maybe it’s the neighborhood, or the cops, or just the gritty light, but this feels like every gangster movie I’ve ever seen. The Posse was one of the gangs chasing AmberLea and me last summer. Even if they liked Bunny, they won’t be happy to see me. Oh, man. What would Bond do? Well, he wouldn’t wimp out. On the other hand, he’s a killing machine with a Walther PPK. I have my glasses and a wooly yellow-and-blue hat with tie strings that I left at home.
Bond might take time out to have a martini and make a plan though. It’s too early for martinis, and I’ve never had one anyway, but I could go back to the Tim Hortons I passed a ways back, have a coffee and make my own plan before I walk down that alley. The police car rolls by. One of the cops gives me a long stare that makes me feel guilty. I swing the van around and head back to Tim’s.
Inside Tim’s, before my glasses fog up, I see that it’s practically dead. I wipe my lenses while I order a triple-triple. I don’t like the taste of coffee much, but it’s manlier than hot chocolate and a whipped-cream mustache. By the time the girl behind the counter brings it to me, I can see again. I’m glad I can: she’s a total babe, even in a hairnet and a frumpy, brown Tim’s outfit. I’ve seen her before: in the visitors’ room at Creekside. She was there, wearing a green dress, one day we went to visit Bun. She was holding Bunny’s hand when we came in.
“Geez, Bun,” I’d said later.
“Yeah, I know.” He’d kind of grinned.
“Hey,” I blurt out now, “Jade, right?” This could save me a trip to the gym.
“Jane.” Her face goes blank and she points to her name tag.
“You know my brother.”
She gives me a cold look Roz would probably appreciate. I’m too excited to care. This is the first break I’ve had. “No,” I say, “you do. Bunny. Bunny O’Toole, remember? We met you one day this fall.”
She turns away.
“Wait, Jade—Jane. Have you seen him? We were skating last night and he just, like, vanished, and I have to find him before—”
She swaps coffeepots around. “Right. If you’re his brother—”
“Yeah. Spencer,” I say.
“Uh-huh. If you’re his brother, you know he’s away.” She turns back. “Next, please.”
I wait till she finishes the next order, then plead from beside the donut display, “No, he’s not away right now. He’s home for ten days on this program, and he has to report in, but he’s gone. He texted me, but I have to find him before he gets in trouble. I thought he might be here.”
She stares at me. Then her face softens, and she smiles a little. “Okay, I remember now. You’re Buffalo Boy. Your mom didn’t like me much that day.”
“Well—”
“Just sayin’. Anyway, Bunny hasn’t been here.”
“What about the gym?”
“No. I’d have heard. Too hot around there anyway.”
A chunky lady with a supervisor’s badge hustles past behind the counter. “We need fresh on five and six, Jane.”
“On it.” Jade or Jane looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” I pick up my triple-triple, then put it down again and grab a napkin. I’ve got a pen in a pocket somewhere. “Listen, can I just give you my number? Could you call if you see him?” She nods and I scribble my number on the napkin and pass it to her.
As I turn to go, she says, “If he texted you, can you check the GPS on his phone?”
“Hey,” I say, “I never thought of that.”
“Jane!” From the supervisor.
“Thanks!” I call. She’s already gone.
The first notes of The Good, the Bad buzz from my pocket. I put down my cream and sugar with coffee again and check my phone. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize. I’d better look, just in case. Maybe Bun’s borrowed a phone. What I read is, we got buny trade 4 musik w8 4 contact SPCA.
I think it’s time to call Deb.
SEVEN
Deb sounds half asleep when she answers her cell phone. Welcome to the club, I think.
“Is everything all right, hon?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. I tell her what’s happened.
“Give that to me again, Spence,” she says after I read her the SPCA text. Her voice has cleared. I read it off my cell screen again: we got buny trade 4 musik w8
4 contact SPCA. “It sounds as if he’s been kidnapped or something. Should I call the cops?”
“No,” Deb snaps. Then her tone mellows out. “Listen, Spence, I think you were right before: Bun’s met up with some gang kids. Now maybe he’s even a little scared to come home. You know his logic isn’t always, well, logical. I remember that girl you met. She’s covering for them. I’ve read up on this. Gang people don’t trust outsiders.”
“Yeah, but I don’t even know if she was in the—”
“She had everything but the tattoo,” Deb cuts in. She’s in full prof mode now. “They also tend to talk in code. That text was from someone else, right?
“Yeah, but—”
“So the others sent it.” Her voice is almost cheery now. “They’re telling you Bunny’s with them, to sit tight and wait for contact. It sounds as if they like his iPod too. God knows what he’s traded it for. Not another tattoo, I hope.”
“Yeah, but who’s SPCA? The gang is Fifteenth Street Posse.”
Deb gives a teacher-y chuckle. “It’s a joke, Spence. SPCA means Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They’re preventing cruelty to a Bunny. Get it? It’s not half bad.”
“Yeah, but—”
“So here’s what you do: nothing. I’ll deal with this. Stay out of it. Don’t call the police. Don’t call Roz; I will. Send me her number—it’s on the fridge. Dad’s off in his yurt, so you can’t reach him anyway.” She’s talking fast now. “You did the right thing calling me. Call me again if you get any more messages, from anyone. Give Bunny time, and I’ll give him hell when I get home. Don’t worry, Spence, it’ll all work out. Now, I’ve got things to do. And I bet there’s a little tidying you could do.”
