Anthiny Bidulka

by Aloha, Candy Hearts (lit)

  He followed. Only inches from my rear, the big white mass was indisputably threatening. This guy was serious.

  What to do? Home was out of the question. No nearby police station.

  We were approaching a four-way stop. I debated zooming through. Maybe a cop would come after us. Where was a hidden spot check when you really needed one?

  I looked left. Empty. I looked right. Oh crapola. Some guy was out for a late night bike ride. I wouldn't hit him, but I couldn't guarantee that GI Jackass behind me would be so careful. I didn't want to put anyone else's life in jeopardy. I slammed on the brake and came to an abrupt stop.

  The white truck zoomed up behind me and I felt another tap. The asshole revved his engine and slowly began pushing me into the intersection. Thankfully, this was Saskatoon, late at night, on a suburban street. But still!

  This guy was really beginning to piss me off.

  The cyclist made it safely through the intersection. It was my turn to go. I hit the pedal and raced through. The truck came with me. Hey! This was a four-way stop! Bugger wasn't even going to wait his turn. Now that really burned me.

  I'd had enough. This idiot was cruising for a confrontation. I'd just have to give it to him. I'd started this stupid game. I knew that had been stupid. So the first thing I'd do—through clenched teeth—would be to apologize. If that did nothing, all bets were off. What he was doing was dangerous. I had pooches in the car. I did­n't want Barbra, Brutus, the Mazda, or me getting hurt over some­thing so ludicrous. At least with a face-to-face, the odds went down to only me potentially getting hurt. (Depending how big the other guy was.) I was hoping, however, that we could deal with this in a more civilized way.

  As we progressed southwards, I scoured the street for poten­tial battlegrounds. And then, almost running out of Clarence Avenue

  , I found the perfect spot: the parking lot of St. Martin's United Church.

  I cranked the wheel and made a left into the empty lot. I parked with my nose pointing toward the slat fence that separated the church grounds from its nearest neighbour. The white truck followed me in.

  I told Barbra and Brutus to wait for me in the car, and to call 9-1-1 if I wasn't back in ten minutes.

  Shifting about to open the driver's side door, I looked out. What I saw took my breath away. The front end of the white truck was rushing right for me. I shrieked—I'm not proud of that—and drew back in shock and surprise. I cringed as I listened to the sick­ly crunch of the truck's bumper making contact with the Mazda's door, effectively blocking my exit unless I wanted to crawl over the dogs to the other side.

  Fortunately, he stopped just short of a full-on bash. The bright lights of the other vehicle filled the inside of the Mazda with enough wattage to make me believe this was some kind of alien abduction. I could barely hear my own heavy breathing over the powerful rumble of the big truck's cruel engine.

  Fear quickly turned to anger. "What the hell?" I bellowed, shielding my eyes.

  Barbra and Brutus seconded my outrage with one annoyed bark each.

  Then came another, unexpected, noise.

  My cellphone.

  Talk about bad timing for a call.

  Then again, maybe it was excellent timing. I obviously needed help.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the phone, and answered, "It's Russell."

  "When I pull back, I want you to drop it out of your window to the ground. Then I'll let you leave," a hushed, whispering voice—male? female? I couldn't quite tell—instructed me. "Or else I'll ram you. And your little dogs tool" (Okay, I made up that last part about the dogs.)

  "What?" I screamed into the phone. "What are you talking about? Who are you?"

  "I know you have it. Now drop it out the window. Or else."

  What was going on? Obviously this had nothing to do with the trucker being mad that I'd unnecessarily tailed him. This guy thought I had something he wanted. Trouble was, I didn't.

  "You have to believe me, I don't have what you're looking for. You've got the wrong guy here."

  Once before, a couple of years ago, I'd caught the attention of a bad guy outside of Ash House. What was with that place? The sooner they moved to the new location the better, as far as I was concerned. That time, I'd initially thought the bad guy had some­thing to do with Ethan. I was wrong. But what about this time?

  All I'd been doing was stalking Ethan, minding my own busi­ness. Now this guy comes after me? Unless he was a superaggres-sive Neighbourhood Watch member, he was after the wrong man.

  "My name is Russell," I shouted into the phone. "And I'm telling you, you have the wrong guy."

  "I know who you are, Mr. Quant," came the weird sounding voice.

  Oh, jeez. How did he know my last name? Jiminy jumping beans, it was me he was after. But why?

  "I don't have what you're looking for," I told him again.

  The engine made a menacing sound, indicating rising rpm's. I felt a shudder as the truck inched into us. Shit, shit, shit! He didn't believe me.

  "Wait!" I yelled.

  I looked over at the dogs. They were admirably controlled, given the circumstances, but I could tell they were growing increasingly antsy. They could sense something was not right. If they decided I was being threatened, there'd be hell to pay. They'd start jumping about, barking and growling. Not only would that be distracting, there simply isn't room for pandemonium in an RX-7 convertible. I knew I couldn't deal with them and this tense situ­ation at the same time. With as calm a voice as I could muster, I whispered sweet nothings to them. It seemed to work. For now.

  "Are you going to do as I say? Or do I ram you?" the voice wanted to know.

  Man? Woman? I was still unsure, but the choice of vehicle was making me lean toward man. An ugly one with a thick neck, bit­ten down fingernails, hairy back, and a low forehead.

  "Yeah, yeah, okay," I said, my voice steady for the dogs' sakes. "But I need to get it first. I'm going to hang up now. Call me back in a minute."

  I heard the caller begin to protest, but I hung up anyway. I quickly searched the cellphone's directory and hit a speed-dial number.

  With each ring I pleaded for an answer. I knew it was late, and Dane and Jim would be asleep, but they were my only hope for immediate help.

  "Yeah," came a groggy voice.

  "Dane? It's Russell."

  "Wha...?"

  "Never mind. I'm parked in the parking lot between your house and the church. There's a white truck about to ram into me. I need you to get eggs and tomatoes and whatever else you have in your fridge and start throwing them over your fence at the truck. Do not come into the parking lot. I repeat, do not come into the parking lot. This guy is dangerous."

  I hung up and hoped for the best. As soon as I did, the phone began to jangle. I waited a beat, then answered. "Yeah?"

  "Don't hang up on me!" the voice warned.

  I already did, you idiot. But I didn't say it out loud. Instead, I said, "Sorry, but I can't talk to you and get...it... at the same time. It's in my bag in the back seat."

  "Just get it."

  "Okay. Hold on."

  Please, please, please, Dane and Jim, I chanted in my head. Remember the time I gave you a jar of my mother's homemade pickles? Surely that has to count for something.

  And then I saw a light switch on through the slats of the fence that separated the parking lot from Dane and Jim's yard. Good sign. At least they hadn't fallen back to sleep.

  I heard a thump.

  Then another. Then an egg splattered all over the centre of my windshield.

  Typical gay guys. No aim.

  Next came a head of romaine. Then I heard a sprinkling on the hood. Yup. Croutons. It was Caesar salad night.

  "What the...?" I heard the voice on the other end of the phone. I guessed some of the produce was making its way onto his wind­shield as well.

  I rolled down my window just a tad. I could hear voices: "Get out of here! Get out! We're calling the cops! Get out!"

&nbs
p; I could have kissed those boys. At the least, I'd replace the gro­ceries.

  "This isn't over!" I heard the phone voice hiss before the con­nection was cut.

  I watched as the truck pulled back, then squealed out of the lot, barely missing hitting me one last time. Asshole.

  As soon as we were in the garage and the Mazda's rotary engine whirred to a stop, Barbra and Brutus began to fuss. They wanted out. Now.

  While they raced off to do their business, I assessed the dam­age to my car. There was a pretty major dent and scrape on the dri­ver's side door, and a few smaller ones on the rear bumper. Then, adding insult to injury, she was covered in smashed and shmooshed produce. Poor baby. I petted the car's hood, yanked a piece of lettuce from under her windshield wipers, and promised to get her into the car spa as soon as I could.

  Before lowering the garage door, I did a quick check of the back alley. Although I'd been extra careful to ensure no one was follow­ing me home, I wanted to be sure. Last thing I needed was White -Truck Crazy finding out where I lived.

  I still had no idea who he (she?) was, or what the "it" was that he was so certain I possessed. How desperate did you have to be to get your hands on something to chase someone down and threaten bodily and vehicular harm? The only thing I knew for sure was that whoever it was in that truck did not want to be iden­tified. He'd not once stepped out of the cab of his vehicle, he'd blinded me with his headlights so I couldn't see in, and he'd done a pretty fine job of disguising his regular speaking voice on the phone.

  Was this all some kind of bizarre mix-up? The fact that he knew my name and cellphone number convinced me otherwise.

  What a night. Welcome home, Russell Quant. Never a dull moment.

  With my luggage lost in space, I wasn't in any particular hurry to get inside to unpack. So I decided to saunter around the back­yard until Barbra and Brutus were ready to come in.

  My home is my castle, a place where I re-energize and seek refuge from the world. If I could build a moat around it, I would, but I think the city has zoning restrictions on drawbridges. The house is on a large lot at the dead end of a quiet, little-travelled street. A grove of towering aspen and thick spruce neatly hides it from the view of the casual passerby. Inside, the house is a unique mix of open, airy rooms and tiny, cozy spaces, each appealing to me, depending on my mood. The backyard is a wonderful never­never land of lovingly planted flora, clay pots, metalwork bench­es, and stone pathways that lead into leafy enclaves hidden throughout the expanse. At the rear of the lot, accessible by way of a back alley, is the two-car garage with a handy second storey I use for storage.

  As I entered the backyard, I took a deep breath. As much as I love to travel, Dorothy was right, there really is no place like home. It was nearing midnight, but the air was still toasty after a hot day and perfect for a late night stroll. An arrangement of solar lights along the pathways, in the flowerbeds, and even hanging from the boughs of trees, created enough light for me to enjoy the familiar landscape. I deadheaded a few geraniums, pulled out an errant weed or two, checked on the progress of my gladiola patch, and finally settled on a Muskoka chair on the deck. I sucked in a lung­ful of sweet air and beheld my kingdom. Once my two royal sub­jects were done relieving themselves and snuffling under bushes to confirm that no other animal had marked their property while they were gone, we proceeded inside.

  Barbra and Brutus immediately visited their dishes, looking up at me with disappointment when they found them empty. I tossed my carry-on onto the kitchen island and filled their bowls with cool water. Not quite what they were hoping for, but good enough for a few slurps.

  Since it was Saturday night after all, and I was suddenly not tired, I opened a bottle of 2006 Granada Creek Vermentino for myself. It was so crisp and clean, it tasted like fruit just turning from green to gold. Exactly what I was hoping for, and good enough for several slurps.

  Knowing that I'd pocketed a couple of dry doggie treats, Barbra and Brutus trotted after me down the hallway to my bed­room. I deposited the carry-on and washed my hands and face. Then we headed to my den, hidden in a cozy corner further down the hallway, at one end of the house.

  I wanted to check my phone messages, hoping for a call from the Air Canada lost luggage gods. I put the message manager on speaker and joined the dogs on the inviting, toffee-coloured couch. All six of our ears perked up when the mechanical voice informed me that I had fourteen messages. But I'd checked them only three days ago from the island!

  Getting home to find real life crashing in all around me is the one part of travelling I hate. I wasn't ready for it. I debated jump­ing up and switching off the machine, but it was too late. I heard Sereena's voice: rich, clear, and unmistakably imperious in a the-queen-who-lives-next-door kind of way.

  "Russell, you'll be home in a day or two. I've been watching over your house as you asked me to. All is well. There was an unfortunate incident with a pollster, but more on that some other time. Missing you dreadfully. I hope you've had a chance to visit Louis Pohl's Gallery. Or have you been spending all your time cavorting on beaches and in bed with Mr. Canyon? Don't forget skincare. And did you try Hoku's at the Kahala? You shouldn't miss the wild mushroom and truffle consomme. Anyhow, enough of that. With Anthony and Jared's wedding coming up the Saturday after you get home, I'll need your assistance with a few small things. I'll expect your call. Aloha, darling."

  That was Sereena. My next door neighbour. A woman with a pedigree of well-earned mystique. She's a complex, fantastical creature with a mythical past no single person knows the whole of. Somewhere north of middle age, she's an imperfect, damaged, raving beauty with an unrivalled, give-me-all-you've-got outlook on life. It comes from being a survivor who barely survived, a woman of the world in a world that showed her equal parts treach­ery and extravagance. She's a modern day Cleopatra, except with­out the lands to rule and fewer asps.

  Although I knew my good friends, Anthony and Jared, were indeed taking the plunge in less than seven days, it was still a shock to hear the word "wedding" being spoken. I'd barely had time to swallow that reality when the next message filled the room. Speak of the devil, it was Jared, reminding me that I'd promised to help build the deck for the new Ash House. How drunk was I when I made that commitment? Then came Errall. She'd finally decided to spread Kelly's ashes and wanted me to join her. Was that why she was so morose earlier on? Why hadn't she said any­thing to me then? There were a few hang ups, a carpet cleaning service offering free, no obligation quotes, and then my mother.

  Even though I'd told her exactly where I was going and exactly when I was coming back, she sounded as if I'd disappeared off the face of the earth, had been gone for a decade, and she was wonder­ing when I was planning on seeing her. Another few hang ups. Another call from Errall about wanting me at some PWC meeting. A dentist appointment reminder. A don't-forget-you're-my-best-man-on-Saturday reminder from Anthony. The last call was from Alex.

  "Hi sexy," he began, his deep voice rumbling over the miles of cable (or whatever it is that telephone companies use these days). "I miss you, guy. I guess I don't really know why I'm calling. Just feeling a bit punchy after all the flying. Loved our weekend togeth­er." There was a pause, then: "I'm glad you said yes."

  Even though it was the shank of summer, all I wanted to do was hide myself under a blanket until sometime next week. I glanced at Barbra. With a vaguely accusing look, she gazed at me, at the phone, then back at me. Damn dog. I tried my luck with Brutus. He was snoring by the fireplace. Much better.

  I gulped the last of my wine and decided to distract myself by unpacking my carry-on. We padded back to the bedroom. Barbra and Brutus quickly claimed spots on the bed, from where they could keep an eye on me while still being comfortable. I pulled out my Dopp kit and put my airline-regulation-sized toiletries back in their regular places. My book went on the bedside table. I reached into the outside pocket of the bag for the slip of paper the lost lug­gage guy had given me. It had the claim num
ber and the address for a Web site where I could apparently check the retrieval status of my bag. Along with the claim tag came a second piece of paper. I unfolded it and frowned.

  Suddenly I knew exactly what it was the maniac in the white truck had been after.

  Chapter 3

  Summer Sunday mornings should be for church, brunch with friends, sleeping in, or long walks along the river. Not jangling phones that make it seem as if your skull is home to a New Orleans Dixieland marching band.

  My head made just enough of a rotation to catch a glimpse of the call display. Uh-uh. I knew that number. Constable Dudley Do-Right. If Kirsch thought his early bird catches the worm routine was going to work with me, he was sadly mistaken.

  I rolled over and ended up with a nice, furry piece of dog ear in my mouth. I couldn't catch a break. I tossed to the other side of the bed. It had been a rough night. I was feeling overwhelmed and I'd been home less than twelve hours. Everyone wanted a piece of me. Alex. Sereena. Errall. Anthony. Alex. Jared. My mother. Darren Kirsch. Alex. It was Sunday for Saint Francis of Assisi's sake. Couldn't they all leave me alone for just one day?

  The phone started ringing again.

  I had to get away. I considered jumping the next flight back to paradise. By tonight I could be having a rum-soaked Mai Tai in the glorious pinkness of The Royal Hawaiian hotel and eating Peking Duck at Wo Fat. Instead, I let the dogs out, fed them, showered, grabbed a few things, and was out the door before the Clinique was dry on my face.

  I wasn't heading for the airport, but I did have something just as adventurous in mind. I was going on a treasure hunt. For some reason, Mr. Magoo, a.k.a. Walter Angel, had decided to slip the treasure map he'd been fretting over into my carry-on. I would have thought I'd have noticed him doing so, but the only time I could think of when he'd have had the chance without my know­ing was after we'd deplaned and he'd glommed on to me to help him to the arrivals level. That was the when. The more interesting mystery was: Why?

  It didn't take too much skull scratching to figure out that it was the treasure map my friend in the white truck had been after last night.