Coda: The Seven Sequels

by Ted Staunton

  The other is a color shot of Grandpa in his seventies, maybe. The only way you can tell is by how veiny and spotty his hands are. He’s hefting a big fish by the gills, smiling under his floppy hat as he stands on the cottage dock. He’s wearing his orange plaid shirt over shapeless tan pants and blue canvas deck shoes. There’s a streak of fish blood or something across one pant leg. His clear gray eyes look right at you.

  It hits me that both pictures are about killing. Are those the eyes of a killer? I feel myself frown. Dropping bombs in a war, catching fish and contract killing with exploding golf balls are not exactly the same. Anyway, the pictures aren’t really about killing. You could just as easily say they’re about good times: friends and sharing. Grandpa was always giving away fish he caught. I look back at the war picture. All those guys are barely older than me. Could I do that? I can’t imagine myself there. Those guys must have been the best buddies in the world. Were some of them jerks? The good guys are the ones on your side. But what if you don’t know for sure who’s on your side? I remember the end of The Ipcress File, where Harry has to figure out which guy is the traitor who set him up, his gun swinging back and forth between two men. You are a traitor, said the note. Did it lie? Was it for real? Was Grandpa a hit man for the CIA? Was he a traitor? If good guys have to do bad things, does that make them bad guys? Does anyone ever think, Hey, my side is the bad guys?

  I unplug the vacuum. The phone doesn’t ring. When I finally leave for the concert, my shoes are still a salty, soggy mess. I pull on the cowboy boots again. Then I clomp to the cookie jar, take out the Colt .45 and slip it into my pocket.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The square at city hall is wall-to-wall people, or sidewalk-to-sidewalk, I guess. Most of them are Tweeners with cold-looking parents. The decorations still flutter, but now the stage is up and lit, and music is pulsing from banks of giant speakers as one of the opening acts plays. Multiple video screens crosscut shots of the crowd with the band. The only morsel of space is the skating rink, where people still wobble and glide the way they did the night Bunny was snatched. Is it good luck or bad that the whole thing is finishing where it started? I’m as wired as any Tweener.

  Tina has passed on the concert to have dinner with friends. We’re supposed to meet her later. AmberLea, Toby and I make our way to the backstage check-in. The whole area is cordoned off with traffic barriers, cops and police tape. Our All Access badges are ready and waiting, and we glide through without all the screening. By now the security guys know us, especially Toby. This is good, because as we get to the check-in, it occurs to me that it might be hard to explain why I’m carrying an automatic pistol, especially when I don’t quite know either.

  Backstage is a canopied maze of RVs, equipment trailers, port-a-potties, you name it. Lights are strung. Bunched cables snake everywhere under protective rubber ridges. Impossibly hip and capable-looking people in headsets and AT hoodies bustle purposefully. Heaters standing near the canopy’s ridge poles waft some warmth into the freezing night air. “That’s Aiden’s.” Toby points to the biggest RV. “We won’t bother him now. That one is for the band, that one the dancers. Hospitality’s in that one.” He points to an RV with tables, chairs and heaters outside its doors. People are clustered there, talking and chowing down.

  To one side of Aiden Tween’s RV stands a big circular tent, made of different colored strips of heavy material. “What’s that?” AmberLea asks.

  “It’s a yurt,” I answer, beating Toby to it for once. “Made of felt. From Tibet. My dad’s in one right now. Not this one,” I add.

  “Aiden always has the musicians and dancers gather in there with him for a togetherness and focusing moment before the show,” Toby says, topping me anyway. “Dope carpets inside. Handwoven, like the ones my uncle collects.”

  I liked it better when Toby was busy somewhere else. All I can say is, “Let’s eat.”

  The hospitality spread has vegan, gluten-free, organic, local and also, fortunately, bad-for-you food. I grab a pizza slice and a hot chocolate, and we find seats by a heater. It feels good to sit; the cowboy boots are chafing again. As we eat, a blond woman walks by to another table, with a drink and something on a paper plate. She’s wearing a tan knee-length parka and a purple-and-gold scarf. A leather messenger bag is slung over her shoulder. It’s the woman I almost bumped into in the hotel lobby.

  But now it all comes together: she’s also a skier with a black mustache and a bearded blond hippie on the Queen streetcar. “Dusan,” I breathe.

  “What?” AmberLea’s chin disappears.

  “Over there. No, don’t look! She might spot us.” I tell them what I’ve just figured out. “She’s SPCA, and she’s here. What’s going on?”

  “She’s the translator,” Toby says. “I saw her yesterday. They called and she showed up after you’d left. She translated the words to the anthem from Pianvian to English and then Aiden invited her to the show tonight.”

  “She knows where Bunny is. I’ve got to find out.”

  “How?” says AmberLea.

  “Maybe she’s got something,” I say. “Some clue. In that bag maybe. That’s where I found the bullets, remember? We have to get it.” My knees have started bouncing like crazy. AmberLea puts a hand on one to slow me down.

  “Okay,” says Toby. “Our advantage is she doesn’t know we’ve figured her out. How do we separate her from the bag?”

  “I’m on it,” says AmberLea. She pulls out her cell phone and tells us what to do.

  A minute later we all take off our coats as if we’re settling in, and then I head back into the hospitality RV. From there I watch Toby and AmberLea chatter. AmberLea looks all around, then goes over to Dusan and, extending her phone, asks her to take their picture. Dusan smiles and stands up. Then AmberLea, a step or two at a time, gently leads them farther and farther away as she fusses over the perfect background, leaving Dusan’s stuff behind.

  I force myself to stroll, not run, to Dusan’s chair, sit down and open the messenger bag as if it’s mine. There’s a cell phone, tissues, a balled-up pair of little black gloves, a hairbrush, lipstick. I look up. AmberLea has them over by the yurt, using it as a background and keeping Dusan facing away from me. I plunge back into the bag: subway tokens, coin purse, a slim wallet with twenty dollars, a bank card, driver’s license for Jennifer Blum, 244 Berry Road, Toronto, Ontario, M8P 2J6. And a folded piece of paper. Out in the square, there’s a roar as the openers finish. Instantly the backstage comes alive. For a moment AmberLea and the others are swallowed in the action. I open the paper.

  PRESS RELEASE

  JANUARY 1, 2013

  The SPCA is shocked and appalled by the horrific murder of Aiden Tween as he bravely sang the anthem of free Pianvians everywhere, an anthem that the current brutal PPP regime has suppressed for fifty years.

  There is no doubt the Pianvian government killed Aiden Tween. His savage assassination at his concert on New Year’s Eve is yet another example of the cruelty and depravity of the PPP, who will stop at nothing to suppress free speech and human rights.

  Aiden Tween was a longtime, dedicated supporter of the SPCA’s struggle for a free Pianvia. He bravely gave musical voice to a people that have none. He became a martyr to our cause as he did so. We will forever be in his debt. Let him be an example to us all. Let the world rally to our cause with the same boldness. We extend our deepest sympathy to his family in this dark hour.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I’m in my own chair when they come back. Dusan doesn’t even give me a glance as she heads to her table. The messenger bag is where she left it.

  “Did you do it?” AmberLea asks. “I stalled her as long as I could.” Then, “Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?”

  All I can do is nod. My brain is working the way I skate: flailing around helplessly. I can’t tell them the kind of horrible trap I’ve led everyone into, especially Aiden Tween.

  Then Dusan is striding past us, cell phone in hand. I jump up. Toby looks a
t me questioningly. I wave him off and follow her. I don’t know what I’m going to do. She stops and starts, looking at her phone as if she’s having trouble getting a signal. We’re over near the yurt now. I step in front of her as she frowns over her phone.

  “Dusan.”

  She starts a little, then looks up at me blankly. “Pardon?” It’s the teachery voice I heard in the hotel lobby after we visited Aiden Tween that first time.

  “Hi, Dusan. Nice to see you again.”

  “Sorry, that’s not my name.” She moves to step around me. I block her and say, “Oh, you have lots of names, just like you have lots of voices. And beards and mustaches—and a gray Civic with a busted bumper.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “You’re going to kill Aiden Tween.”

  For a moment she stares at me, as if she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth keeping on trying to fake me out. Then she jerks her head toward the open doorway of the yurt. We step inside. Like Toby said, the place is filled with fancy carpets. Lighting from somewhere gives it a soft glow.

  Dusan turns to face me. “I’m not killing anyone,” she says coolly. The fabric around us swallows her voice. “Aiden Tween will be lucky to die a martyr’s death in the struggle against forces of oppression.”

  “I’ve read your press release for tomorrow.”

  “Then you know the Pianvian government, the PPP, is going to kill him.”

  “I know the SPCA is going to kill him and blame it on them.”

  Twin spots of red start to burn in her cheeks. “The SPCA fights for freedom. Sometimes freedom comes at a heavy cost. But not to you. All you have to do is stay out of the way, which is less than your grandfather did.”

  “My grandfather—”

  “Your grandfather butchered my great-grandfather in cold blood,” Dusan hisses.

  “Zoltan Blum was your great-grandfather?”

  “Of course.” Her eyes glitter. I flash on her ID: Jennifer Blum. “And your grandfather blew him off the face of the earth with a bomb in a golf ball. There was nothing even to bury. And probably he said that somehow it was for the sake of freedom. Maybe he even believed it: it’s easier to tell yourself that than ‘I did it for the money.’ Well, this is for the sake of freedom, freedom for a whole people, freedom your grandfather and his CIA masters set back fifty years. The whole world will rally to us if they think the Pianvian government killed Aiden Tween.”

  “My grandfather wouldn’t do stuff like that,” I say.

  “He had the anthem.” She shakes her head.

  “There are a million reasons why he could have ended up with that song.” I don’t know what they are, but I keep babbling. “Somebody else could have killed your great-grandfather. You said he was scared and being followed. Maybe he gave it to my grandpa to keep safe and then got killed and my grandpa got scared and didn’t know what to do with it, so he hid it. Ever think of that?”

  “You think of this,” she says. “Either Aiden Tween dies or your brother does.”

  “Whaaat? Why? The deal was, get Aiden Tween to sing the anthem. Period. I did that.”

  “But now you can make trouble for us, so the deal has changed. Deals often do. Ask your grandfather.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Good.” She spits at my feet. Something roils inside of me.

  “I’ll stop you,” I say.

  She smirks. “It’s not me you have to stop. And it’s far too late to stop anything.”

  “Oh yeah? Better check that box of bullets you carry around.”

  Now she laughs. “There is more than one box of bullets.”

  “I’m still going to stop you.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, little boy. Unless Aiden Tween dies, your brother will be killed. So you have a choice: him or your brother. A worthless pop star becomes an instant martyr for Pianvian freedom, which is better than he deserves, or your brother dies slowly and alone. I guarantee you, there will be nothing even to bury. Make a better choice than your grandfather did.” Jennifer Blum walks out of the yurt.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Bunny or Aiden Tween. I stand there staring at the riot of patterns in the carpets. They’re a handwoven maze; there’s no way out.

  I have to save my brother. And that means someone else dies. How will they kill Aiden Tween? Snipers? A bomb? Screams, blood, chaos. To block it out, I try to imagine Bun right now. Is he handcuffed? Blindfolded? Staring at an ax? Does he understand what’s going on? Has he made friends with them all? That would be a Bun thing to do. Maybe they’ve liked him too much to hurt him, or think he’s just too weird. People react to Bun in odd ways.

  As I cling to this thought, I’m interrupted by voices. People are crowding into the yurt: dancers, backup singers, musicians, then Aiden Tween and Sumo, surrounded by a moving mountain of bodyguards. Standing by the entrance I have a flash of hope: maybe they won’t be able to kill Aiden Tween, with all this security. It won’t be my fault if they try and fail. Will it?

  They can all barely squeeze into the yurt. The security mountains back off. One of them stares at my clipped-on pass, then shoulders over and stands beside me. Everyone gets quiet. Aiden Tween looks tiny in his stage outfit. The gold of his hair exactly matches the sequins on his jacket. He looks pale at the edges of his makeup. He raises his gold-and-white gloved hands and starts to speak, his southern accent coming out stronger than I’ve heard it before. “Tonaght as we know, the show gon’ be a l’il bit…diff ’rent, and I’m countin’ on y’all to make it a good one. If things, uh, get a l’il crazy out there, a few thangs not in the playbook, jes’ stay cool an’ know we’re well looked after, here an’ above. Everythang gon’ be fine. All right, c’mon an’ join hands for prayer.”

  I slip out of the yurt. I can’t watch Aiden Tween saying his last prayer. I’ve sentenced him to death. Now I’m a killer too. AmberLea and Toby appear. I can’t look at them. Behind us, everyone bursts from the yurt and streams up the backstage ramps, ready to go on. The intro music begins to pound. “You want to watch the show?” AmberLea asks gently. I shake my head. “Let’s go sit down,” she says. “You go,” she says to Toby.

  We go back to the chairs and tables as Tween’s show kicks in. His last one. I put my head in my hands and keep it there, for I don’t know how long. Finally, AmberLea says, “It’s going to be all right, Spence. Bunny will be all right. They’ll let him go.” She’s trying to reassure me, but there’s this note in her voice that tells me something I should have known all along. I look up.

  “No, they won’t,” I say. “They’ll kill him too.” Friendly, oddball Bunny, who could look out a window and sneak to a telephone has seen and heard way too much to go free.

  “Too? What do—?”

  “Listen,” I say, “there’s not much time. Dusan changed the deal on me. They’re going to kill Aiden Tween when he sings the anthem and blame it on the other guys. She said they’d kill Bunny if we tried anything.” I swallow hard. “But she lied. They’ll kill Bunny anyway. We’ve got to stop them.”

  AmberLea blanches. “Oh my god. We’ve got to tell someone. We’ve got to—where is she?” She looks around wildly.

  “I don’t know. But it won’t be her. Remember she said a shooter watched the streetcar? I bet there’s a sniper out front.”

  “Maybe we still have time. Come on!” AmberLea jumps up as Toby approaches. “When does he sing the anthem?”

  “Soon,” Toby says, “right after ‘Ooooh, Ooooh Ooooh.’ That’s next.”

  “He can’t sing it. Stop him! It’s a setup. The SPCA will shoot him when he does.”

  “What?” It’s the first time I’ve seen Toby lose his cool. “I’ve got to tell Sumo, get him offstage.” He starts to run. “Call the cops!” comes over his shoulder. “I’ll tell security.”

  AmberLea whips out her phone to call 9-1-1. There’s no signal. “There were cops out at the barriers.” She turns to run too.

  “Forget it,” I say. “Th
e cops will never find the shooters now. They could be in the square, a building, anywhere.”

  Toby comes charging back as “Ooooh, Ooooh, Ooooh” kicks in. “He blew me off,” he pants angrily. “Told me to shut up and that security is under control, that Aiden gets death threats all the time. He said there’d be a riot if we yanked Aiden offstage. What the hell’s wrong with these people?”

  The good guys are the ones on your side. “Okay,” I say. “It’s us against them. We’ve got to find her, make her call it off.”

  “How?” says AmberLea.

  “I have a way.”

  “You two do that,” Toby says. “I’ve got to protect him.” He hurdles the steps into an RV. A second later he’s out, sprinting past with a big purple-and-gold flag in his fist. “If they can’t see him, they can’t shoot him,” he calls.

  “Come on,” says AmberLea. “Gotta find her. Split up. I’ll take that side.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  I jog up the closest backstage ramp, which is tricky in the cowboy boots. It’s dim back here, and the glare from the lights out front is blinding. I push up my glasses and wait till my eyes adjust. Stacks of gear and equipment cases sharpen into focus amid the scaffolding. Shadows flit past in the gloom. None of them wear a tan coat or a purple-and-gold scarf. They’re roadies and tech workers: Aiden Tween shows have a lot of special effects and stage and costume changes. I remember a clip I saw on TV where he’s somehow beamed down to the stage from a spaceship or something. I look up. The spaceship sways on cables overhead.

  I move forward. My guess is, she’ll want to be as close as possible to watch Aiden Tween die. Out front, the lights change to cool blues and greens. I hear Aiden Tween oohing over the music. Back here, dancers huddle around a heater, their costumes barely reflecting the stage lights. A guitar tech stands at a rack of instruments, a little meter flashing red and green in the gloom as he plucks strings.