Tin Soldier: The Seven Sequels

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Bowden leaned over, hands on his knees, and tried to draw more air into his lungs. Definitely not a field operative.

  “Hope your nose is broken,” Elizabeth said to Warwick, and she kicked him again in the meat of his butt. She kept kicking Warwick until the security people arrived to rescue him from her.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Bluebird Cafe was in a strip mall outside of downtown Nashville. Maximum capacity, ninety music fans. It was Monday night, singer-songwriter night, and Webb was one of those ninety filling it to capacity. Lee Knox, at the small table beside him, was another.

  The interior of the café was as ordinary as the outside. Bunch of tables, square-back chairs. The stage, which was a generous name for it, was more like an open spot in the center of the tables. Musicians on the stage could reach out and touch the crowd, half of which was directly behind them.

  What made it out of the ordinary was the music. There was something so organic about stepping out on the tightrope, playing music live, Webb thought. Nothing polished. Plenty of mistakes. No producer to bail you out and auto-tune your vocals.

  It was the break time, halfway through the sets.

  “They all sounded good,” Lee said, leaning back. “Thanks for the invite. I’m enjoying this.”

  There was only one person Webb had wanted to invite to this evening. Lee Knox.

  Lee said, “Sorry I was a little late. I wanted to give this to you right away, but the music had started.”

  He slid an envelope across the table. “From the insurance company. Told you they might pay a fee if we could prove liability on someone else.”

  Webb wanted to open the envelope, but he played it cool.

  “Thanks,” Webb said.

  “Enough there to get you through six months, at least,” Lee said. “You got your green card, right? You don’t have to hurry back to Canada?”

  “Tracy delivered,” Webb said.

  “Good,” Lee said. “I have a buddy with a houseboat here in Nashville. He’s looking for someone to stay on it while he’s away, make sure everything’s all right.”

  “Houseboat. Nashville.”

  “Sounds crazy, I know. But there’s this spot on the river. About twenty houseboats. Got a good vibe. You’ll like it. Save you a bunch on rent too.”

  Webb let out a deep breath. This was good news. No, GREAT news. He wasn’t going to give up on trying to get his songs back from the producer who had ripped him off, but this money would give him a chance to try cutting more songs with a new producer. Still, despite the good news, he was nervous.

  “Hey! Mile 112,’” Lee said. “That’s easy to remember.”

  Lee was talking about the poster. Webb couldn’t put his own name up on the poster with the other singer-songwriters. There was another Jim Webb, really famous in the music business. Wouldn’t look good and would be too confusing.

  “Mile 112,” Webb repeated. “Just me right now—no band. That trip up north for my grandfather? Mile markers all along the way. That’s where I got the name. Mile 112 was at Devil’s Pass. Significant place for me. I told you about that, driving back from DC.”

  That was when Webb had told Lee about his stepfather. About the grizzly attack. About the depression he faced every day, and the lack of appetite and the anger. It was also when Webb discovered that Lee had been telling the truth. Getting that stuff out, sharing it with a friend, was the first step to making it better. That realizing it was there, like a broken leg or broken arm, helped a person start healing inside.

  Lee nodded. “Come up with any good songs of your own for mile oneTwelve?”

  “Working on it,” Webb said. “But nothing so far that I know is good. Nothing my gut tells me is the one. Nothing that’s going to set me apart. I’m here because I want to practice playing in front of a crowd.”

  “Scared?”

  “Puckered up so bad you wouldn’t believe it,” Webb said. “This is the Bluebird.”

  “Advice?” Lee said. “Can I give you some?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t rush it. You get up there, let some silence hang. Nervous people fill the silence, and nervous people make the crowd nervous.”

  The lights flashed on and off, a signal for people to start making their way back to their tables.

  “You making any trips to Montgomery in the next while?” Lee asked, as if he knew changing the subject would help Webb get through the nervousness.

  “Why would I do that?” Webb said.

  “Ali.”

  “Well then,” Webb said. “Maybe.”

  “Like maybe the sun is going to rise in the east tomorrow morning,” Lee said.

  “You making any trips to DC in the next while?” Webb said.

  “Why would I do that?” Lee asked.

  “Tracy. At the CIA. I noticed you spent time closely inspecting her every time she couldn’t catch you looking.”

  “Needed to know if she was carrying a weapon,” Lee said. “Just basic intelligence work.”

  “And was she?”

  “Don’t know,” Lee said. “That would take a trip back to DC, wouldn’t it?”

  Webb laughed, glad for something to relieve the tension.

  “Lee,” he said. “I found out something about Sinatra. Couldn’t wait to tell you about it. That movie, Ocean’s Eleven?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I did some research. Found out it was filmed in the casinos in Las Vegas back when a lot of casinos wouldn’t let blacks through the door. Sinatra’s friend, Sammy Davis Jr., he was black.”

  “Yeah?” Some hesitation in Lee’s answer.

  “Sinatra put the word out. He wouldn’t go in a casino unless they let Sammy in with him. Even went further than that. Did some stage acts with Sammy, poking fun at segregation. How you feel about that? Was Sinatra hip or square?”

  Lee looked away, as if he was studying the posters on the walls of the famous musicians who had performed at the Bluebird.

  He finally looked back at Webb. “How I feel is that maybe I should have stopped to learn about this before making assumptions about someone I didn’t know.”

  Rueful smile as Lee continued. “And how I feel is that the inability to let go of crap exists in all colors. And it feels good, when you do let it go.”

  A guy with a nose ring walked up. The sound guy. “Dude, you’re next. Need help plugging in?”

  “I’m good,” Webb said. “Thanks.”

  Webb stood.

  “Haircut,” Lee said from his chair. “Looks good on you.”

  No more ponytail.

  “I lost some heavy baggage that I didn’t need to carry anymore,” Webb said. “Like you said, the inability to let go of crap exists in all colors. Glad I finally let go. My stepfather has nothing on me now.”

  As he took the chair behind the mike, he caught Lee’s grin. That felt good too.

  Webb plugged in his guitar, strummed it a few times. He’d thought of telling Lee that the first song was for him, but Lee would figure it out. Or he wouldn’t. If Webb had to explain it, it would lose something for both of them.

  Webb was ready, his heart pounding hard against his ribs when the lights went down, except for the spotlight on him and his J-45 guitar and his Montreal Alouettes T-shirt. This wasn’t the time to explain to the crowd that the Alouettes were once the Baltimore Stallions, and that the franchise ignored that inconvenient part of team history.

  Webb smiled out at the spotlights, which hurt his eyes. Couldn’t see anything except the lights. He made himself silently count to four.

  “Hey, everybody,” Webb said. He forced himself to speak slowly. With confidence he didn’t feel. “It’s an honor to be here at the Bluebird. I thought I’d start by saying I learned something lately from a friend. I love party songs, but once in a while we need a song that means something.”

  Silence. Ominous silence. Of a crowd bracing itself for yet another singer-songwriter who took himself way too seriously.

  “Unfort
unately,” Webb said, “no matter how hard I try, I can’t come up with that song.”

  Laughter. Good laughter. As if suddenly the crowd had decided to like him.

  That’s when Webb knew it was going to turn out all right, him and his guitar here at the Bluebird Cafe.

  “So,” Webb said, “if you can get past the folksy beginning, I’ll play you something you might already know. It’s from the seventies. My contribution is that I’ve changed up the tune a bit. I like the song because it reminds me that in the end, it’s good to be good to each other. No matter what differences we have. We all have more in common with each other than things that set us apart. And we pay too high a price when we forget that simple truth.”

  Like a congressman led out from his office in handcuffs, because money meant more to him than the lives of American soldiers.

  “Amen,” someone yelled out. “Amen, brother!”

  The guy had probably had too much beer, but Webb grinned at the applause that followed the enthusiastic outburst.

  “Yes, sir,” Webb said. “I’d be happy to call you brother.”

  With the crowd expectant, he waited five seconds to build some tension. Then he hit the first notes on his guitar. Softly. Made people lean in to catch what he was playing. Then he picked up the volume to give the guitar riffs momentum.

  There were whistles of appreciation. Even with the chords changed to a dark minor, they now knew exactly where he was going. And wanted more.

  Webb leaned into the mic for the vocals and sang the opening words. Listen, children to a story / that was written long ago / ’bout a kingdom on a mountain / and the valley folk below…

  As he sang, Webb couldn’t help but think about Jesse Lockewood, wanting only a quiet life with his wife and family, finding a way to survive all that had been horrible about Vietnam. About Casey Gardner, and how his family had been overjoyed to learn Casey wasn’t a deserter, but a war hero. About his grandfather David McLean, taking risks under an assumed name, knowing there would be no public reward for the help he could give and the risk of death if he failed. About Lee Knox, doing what he could, under the radar, to make things better. Lee wasn’t a perfect man; like everyone, he had his biases, but he cared, and in the end, that did matter. Webb thought about himself, and how good it had felt to cut his hair and get out of the prison he’d put himself in.

  By the time Webb got to the final chorus, everyone in the Bluebird was standing and singing with him, so he had no choice but to stand with his guitar, ignore the mic and blend his voice in with all of them.

  There won’t be any trumpets blowing come the judgment day. On the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my editor, Sarah Harvey, for pushing me to make Webb’s story the best it could possibly be. And thanks to the rest of the amazing Orca team who do so much behind the scenes to make the series successful. I’d also like to acknowledge the passion and dedication of teachers Cheryl Kennedy, Heather Earl, Allison Boyd and Gwen Dermott-Ainscough, whose students were the test readers who offered me much-needed feedback on the first and second drafts of the novel. And thanks to those great students. You guys rock.

  SIGMUND BROUWER is the bestselling author of numerous books for children and adults, including Rock & Roll Literacy and titles in the Orca Echoes, Orca Currents and Orca Sports series. Tin Soldier is the sequel to Devil’s Pass—Sigmund’s first novel in Seven (the series), which was a finalist for the John Spray Mystery Award, a Red Maple nominee and a Kirkus Reviews Critics’ Pick. Visit www.rockandrollliteracy.com for information on Sigmund’s school presentations. Sigmund’s website for readers is at www.rockandrollbooks.com. Find Webb’s music, inluding his remake of “One Tin Soldier” at iTunes under mile oneTwelve. Sigmund and his family divide their time between his hometown of Red Deer, Alberta, and Nashville, Tennessee.

  DISCOVER ANOTHER EXCITING BOOK IN THE

  SEVEN SEQUELS

  9781459805378 PB

  9781459805392 EPUB

  9781459805385 PDF

  Rennie is in Uruguay when his cousins discover some unsettling items at their dead grandfather’s cottage. Rennie’s mission: find out whether the old man was a spy and a traitor, and if he helped a Nazi war criminal escape justice.

  NINE

  I’m covered in blood after my attempted CPR. I’m still shaking. The ambulance guys check me out. They wrap me in a blanket because I’m shaking so hard. They inspect me for wounds. They listen to my heart a couple of times. Apparently, it’s racing. They tell me it’s shock at what I’ve witnessed. Once they’re satisfied I’m not hurt, they hand me over to the cops, who take me back to a police station, put me into a small room and tell me to take a seat, that someone will be with me shortly. If I’m suspected of anything or under arrest, no one bothers to tell me. I’m not worried—not yet anyway. I haven’t done anything. Besides, down here the cops have to tell you whether you’re arrested or not. If they don’t and the case goes to trial, it will get kicked because they didn’t follow the rules. But they fingerprinted me, which I don’t understand. Why the fingerprints if I’m not under arrest? I guess I could have said no. But, like I said, I haven’t done anything. If you haven’t broken any laws, you have no worries, right?

  So I sit—or try to—and I wait. I’m as squirmy as an addict in need of a top-up. I still can’t believe what happened. I don’t want to believe it. I stand again, and I pace. I stop for a few seconds to look at the mirror on one wall. Of course, I know it’s not really a mirror. It’s a one-way window. Whoever is on the other side can see me, and that’s all I can see too. Me. With blood on the front of my jacket. With a face that looks too white considering how much surf and sun I’ve had lately.

  Me, pacing. Which makes me look guilty of something. But I can’t stop. I don’t even want to think about sitting still. I just want out.

  The door opens and a massive black guy comes into the room. He tells me his name—Daniel Carver—and says he’s a homicide detective. He’s wearing a dark suit with a shirt and tie, and he’s carrying a file folder. He flashes me his badge and tells me to take a seat.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I tell him. That doesn’t sound right. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. “I mean, I tried CPR. But it was too late.” There, that’s better. Sort of.

  “I said sit.” He doesn’t yell it at me. It sounds more like a guy giving a command to his dog. And like a good dog—or like someone who knows enough about cops to know it’s not a good idea to annoy them, not when something this serious has happened—I sit. But one of my legs is jumping up and down like it’s keeping time to music that no one can hear. Carver notices. He looks at it. I make it stop. Carver looks me in the eye. My leg starts to jump again.

  “Rennie Charbonneau. That’s your name?” He’s got the deepest voice I’ve ever heard and a way of talking like I’m a piece of garbage he’s about to ditch as soon as he can find out who tossed me in his path. He scares me more than the Major ever has, and that’s rare. I don’t get scared very often, and I sure don’t get intimidated. Maybe it’s shock, like the ambulance guy said. “That’s a French name, right?”

  I nod. “My dad’s Quebecois.” Will a Detroit cop know what that is? “He’s from Quebec. It’s in Canada.”

  “I know where Quebec is,” Carver says mildly. He’s looking at a page inside the file folder. “What’s a Canadian boy from Quebec doing down here in Detroit over Christmas, Rennie?”

  I start to relax, even though I know I probably shouldn’t. Just because a cop—a homicide cop, at that—sounds friendly, it doesn’t mean he is. More than likely he’s trying to find out what I sound like and look like and how I act when I’m not being grilled and not spinning a web of lies. He’s using psychology on me. I tell myself to relax. I remind myself of something I’ve heard the Major say before, which is that you might be able to put one over on a good investigator now and then, but unless you’re a career criminal—a successf
ul career criminal—you’re basically a rookie up against someone who’s seen and heard it all. Carver is doing his job here, the same job he’s been doing for a couple of decades, judging by the look of him. Me—I’m just in a situation that I sincerely hope is temporary.

  “I’m on my way home from a vacation with my dad,” I say.

  He glances up from the folder. “Oh? He’s here with you?”

  “No, sir.”

  He hears the “sir,” and a wolflike smile appears on his face.

  “You trying to snow me, Rennie?”

  “No, sir.”

  His eyes lock onto mine. If I look hard enough, I can see his vision of my future in their black depths. I want to look away, but I know not to. If you don’t look straight at the cops when they’re talking to you, they start to think you’re lying. And if you’re lying, then you’re probably guilty of something. But what I said is true. For once I’m not trying to snow anyone with the “sir.” It’s just that Carver reminds me of the Major, so the “sir” is an automatic reflex.

  “My dad shipped out,” I tell him. Then, before he can ask, I add, “He’s with the military. He has an assignment overseas. Afghanistan.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “You haven’t explained what you’re doing in Detroit. It says here you’re a Canadian citizen, residing in Canada. You have friends here?”

  “No, sir.”

  He looks at the file folder again. “You told the officers on the scene that you had dinner with friends and that you were in the alley where the shooting occurred because you were doing a favor for one of those friends.”

  I feel my leg jump. I wish it wouldn’t, but I can’t stop it. I realize it looks like he’s caught me in a lie. But it’s not a lie. The fact is, I can barely remember what I told the two uniforms who questioned me at the scene. Mostly I was thinking how close I’d just come to being a corpse like Duane. If those cops were to walk into the room right now, I doubt I’d recognize them. There are only two faces burned into my brain, and believe me, I wish they weren’t. They’re Duane after he stopped breathing and the guy with the massive spider tattoo.