Seven Bundle

by Various Orca

  5. I thot about her saying help me.

  That was all the thinking I had time for. Next thing I new Jaden was running past me out of the parking lot and onto the street and the pleece man was running after her. He dint get far cuz I put my foot out and he trippd over it. He grabbd me and we went down. Forget falling like a ball—the pleece man was on top of me. I fell like a brick and hit my head. I saw stars.

  THAT WAS A LONG

  TIME AGO

  LIKE MONTHS AND MONTHS. My head got better. Jello dint dy from the gun shot but he got sick and dyed in hospital and I went to jale. Im still here. Its not so bad. Theres a jim and a TV room and a caff. The foods OK. The wire fence is hi but I can see thru it to the street and the houses and peepl walking by. The 3 guys in my room were OK after the first nite. They saw the tatoo and Benj said holy crap. Next day he brot me xtra brekfast. And the next day. I had to tell him OK enuff. Moms stoppd crying wen she comes to visit. Summer went by and fall. Im in skool—Grade 9. Im fixing up my pleece report to hand in as a riting project. My teecher saw sum of it all reddy. He said O.

  Jaden came to visit the first Sunday after I got here. She wore a green dress with buttons and had her hair pulld back and lookd pretty. She was a girl all the time now in case the pleece were looking for the boy Jaden. She said I cud call her Jade. The visitors room was mostly moms and mostly sad. But I wasnt sad and nether was Jade.

  She told me what happend to her that day. How she foold the pleece pretending to be so freakd out by the shooting that she wudnt talk not even to say her name. She dint want them taking her home and finding she was Cobras sister. They took her to a crazy hospital and were nice to her for ours. And wen she still wudnt say any thing they took her back to the pleece stashun to be a missing person—witch is wen she saw me and took a chance on running.

  Wow I said. And how did you no I wud help?

  I dint she said. But I new you were on my side. I was hoping.

  Wen I told her ware the money was she opend her mouth wide and said r you sure? And I said no. But that wen I was hiding in the COMING SOON store I herd the Angels talking about Butch and the money—and that wen I threw Butch down the esclater he dint have a nap sack but that the headless mom in the camp fire seen did.

  So you think Butch hid the money in the sport store so the cops wudnt find it on him?

  Mayb I said.

  And he cant get it now. I wonder if he told any 1 about it befor he got shot? Ha! You reely r a jeenyus Bunny.

  No. But Ive always bin good at finding things I said.

  Jade gave me a hug on her way out and Greg went woo-hoo. Greg is OK for a gard. Next time she came she told me about wating in the sports store til no 1 was looking and grabbing the nap sack off the headless mom. Jade comes here a lot—most Sundays even tho its a trane ride for her. We walk round outside if its sunny.

  We talkd about Jello 1 time. She dint no why he turnd into a rat. He was in jale befor she said. Mayb the cops had sum thing on him. Said she dint care. A rats a rat she said.

  Last time she came was weerd cuz Mom and Dad and Spencer came 2. They walkd in the visiting room wen Jade was all reddy there and we were kind of holding hands. Mom stoppd in the doorway and the other 2 bumpd into her.

  Wen Jade left Mom was super polite like how very nice to meet you. Dad pointd his finger at her and said see ya later. I thot Spencer wud never be able to close his mouth it was open so wide.

  Bun man he said.

  Yah I no.

  Scratch came to visit last Sunday. I dint no him til he told me his name. Hes a tuff littl guy with pointy shoos and a jacket. He wantd to see my tatoo. Then he nodded and said—I thot so.

  What?

  Thats mine he said. You got my tatoo.

  My grampa—

  It was a mistake he said.

  He took off his jacket and opend his shirt. On the back of his sholder he had a tatoo of a bug smoking a cigar. Under the bug pick sure was sum riting—Together we fly. Grampas motto from back in the war.

  I was next after you at the place on Lake shore said Scratch. I dint see the ink til it was dun. Then I almost killd that dorf. She blamed Billy—said it was him bying the place in a rush and getting the orders rong. And she said you dint no any better—that you thot you were getting the rite ink.

  So Scratch had my tatoo and I had his.

  Im used to it now he said. I dont check back there very much and wen I do its pretty good.

  He pointd at my arm. That says you belong to the 15 Street Possy and you killd sum 1 he said.

  I no I said. Im a fake.

  But r you? he ast. Dint you kill 1 of 15s enemys? Jackson was a rat and you helpd the possy by getting rid of him.

  I said I dint reely do it.

  You were there wen it happend. Your in jale for it. Cobra and Xray and Morgan r out now but your still behind a fence. I think you ernd the tatoo Bunny.

  Funny the way he put it. It almost made sens.

  Greg the gard came over and ast Scratch to do up his shirt. Do you mind? he said and Scratch said not at all. I ate a cooky. The caff puts them out on Sundays. I thot of the things that had happend cuz of my tatoo. The guys I new. The things I did. The things I was doing and wud do. I thot about Grampa agane. With his hat and his jokes and his arms on my sholders saying Dont be sorry for yourself.

  Well I wasnt. For all that went rong I wasnt sorry for me.

  Scratch ast wen I was getting out. Sum time in June I said. The sentens was a year less a day. My mom has it ritten down I said.

  He said they missd me down at the jim. Morgan and them. The money in the nap sack was paying the rent with enuff left over for Cobras new place. Jade dint come round very much he said.

  You new about her I said.

  About—?

  About Jaden being a girl.

  He shook his head.

  Cobra and the gramma were the only 1s who new he said. And then you.

  Wen Scratch left I got my coat and walkd around the fence. I thot of Grampa holding the sord and saying I wud no who the good guys were wen the time came. Trust yourself he said. Benj came out and walkd with me. He had a cupl cookys and gave me 1. We talkd about hocky. He liked the Leefs. They were his teem. There going to win tonite he said.

  How do you no that?

  I dont he said. But Im hoping.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book wouldn’t have got started without Eric Walters’s big idea. And it wouldn’t have got plotted without the input of the other six authors in the series. Particular thanks to my series brother, Ted Staunton. Content and spelling help was provided by my children and my MFA class at Guelph-Humber. Thanks, guys. John Cusick and Scott Treimel did their usual stellar agenting. And I want to acknowledge a huge debt of thanks to the incomparably generous, gracious and flexible Sarah Harvey, series editor. Sorry for the gray hairs!

  RICHARD SCRIMGER is the award-winning author of more than fifteen books for children and adults. His books have been translated into Dutch, French, German, Thai, Korean, Portuguese, Slovenian, Italian and Polish. The father of four children, he has written humorous pieces about his family life for The Globe and Mail and Chatelaine. Visit Richard at www.scrimger.ca.

  NORAH MCCLINTOCK

  CLOSE

  TO THE

  HEEL

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2012 Norah McClintock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McClintock, Norah

  Close to the heel [electronic resource] / Norah McClintock.

  (Seven (the series))

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-951-3 (PDF).--I
SBN 978-1-55469-952-0 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Seven the series (Online)

  PS8575.C62C56 2012 jC813'.54 C2012-902624-7

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938309

  Summary: At the request of his late grandfather, Rennie goes to Iceland to right an old wrong, and gets drawn into investigating a murder.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  To Jens with thanks for a new waterfall

  (or two, or three) and a new folktale every day.

  The door hath swung too near the heel;

  But better sore feet than serve the Deil.

  —FROM “THE BLACK SCHOOL”

  AN ICELANDIC FOLKTALE

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  I’m going to die. It’s as simple as that.

  The thought makes my heart feel hollow, but what can I do?

  I drag one foot up out of the snow. Snow! It’s only October. I will it to move forward and feel it sink again into the whiteness. I pray that it will find solid ground and not a bottomless crevice.

  My foot touches down on something hard. I know that not because I feel it land—I don’t—but because I’m lifting my left leg, which I could only do if my right foot were firmly planted. I force myself to plod on.

  I have no idea where I am, except that it’s somewhere in the interior. At least, I think it is.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been here.

  I have no idea what direction I’m going in or what direction I should be going in.

  I have no idea how far I’ve gone or how far I need to go.

  The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m not going to make it.

  I know my feet are down there at the ends of my legs, but I can’t feel them. I can’t see them either. I can’t see anything except white, and I don’t know if the white I see is snow or snow blindness. My eyes are burning. They’re also watering, and that makes me afraid they will freeze solid in my head. I’ve stopped shivering, but I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. At first when the shivering stopped, I ached all over. I know what that’s from—muscle fatigue from so much violent trembling or pain from the cold. Either way, it scares me because all I can think of is the amount of energy I’m expending. It takes a while before I realize I’m not cold anymore. Maybe the snow is insulating me. Or maybe—this is the part I don’t want to think about—maybe you stop shivering when your body temperature falls below a certain point.

  I’m going to die.

  So why don’t I surrender? Why don’t I stop slogging through snow that’s up to my knees, making each step feel like the equivalent of ten? Why don’t I sit down and just let it happen? Or, even better, lie down and give in to it? The snow is soft. It’s thick too. If I lie on it, it will feel like a feather mattress or at least like what I imagine a feather mattress would feel like. I could stretch out and relax myself into the next world, assuming there is a next world. It wouldn’t hurt. That’s what they say anyway. They say when you freeze to death, you just lie down and go to sleep, and the next thing you know (except you don’t really know, because how can you?), you’re gone. You’ve slipped away. Passed over. Ventured to the land from which no one has ever returned. What Shakespeare called the undiscovered territory. (Thank you, Mr. Banks; you always said that knowledge of Shakespeare provides a person with a wealth of images to draw on later in life.)

  I drag my foot up again and coax it to take another step. Come on, leg. Don’t fail me now. Don’t let it end this way, in the middle of nowhere where I’ll never be found.

  I think that’s what keeps me moving—the thought of never being found. That and the fact that I’ve never been known to back down, let alone surrender.

  And the fact that the one thing I do know is why I’m here.

  I take another step.

  I think about the Major and everything he’s tried to pound into my head for the last seventeen years. If there’s one thing the Major hates, it’s a quitter. He says no one was born composing symphonies (except maybe Mozart). Everyone has to start somewhere. You have to walk before you can run. Every journey starts with the first step.

  And continues with the next and then the next.

  You have to stick to it. They didn’t put a man on the moon by giving up after the first rocket fizzled. Wars aren’t won by armies who are prepared to surrender after the first defeat.

  I pick up my foot again. I still can’t feel it, by which I mean I can’t tell if I’m actually wiggling my toes or if I just think I’m wiggling toes that are way past being able to wiggle no matter what orders the brain sends down the line. But I do know that someone must have tied a couple of cement bricks to each of my ankles, because I can barely lift my feet. After a couple more steps, I sink to my knees. I’m done. My goose is baked, as the Major would say. I can think of another way to put it, but the Major has this thing about four-letter words. He says anyone who uses them is displaying the pathetic state of his vocabulary. If he hears one, he sends me to the dictionary to find five alternatives. If he were a drill sergeant, the army would be a whole different place.

  The wind sweeps snow over me as I try to breathe rhythmically, a trick I was taught to keep me calm. It’s not long before I’m up to my thighs in snow, and it’s funny how it makes me feel warm.

  I crouch down until I’m sitting on my heels. I tell myself that it’s just for a few minutes, that all I need to do is catch my breath. It feels good to be resting. It feels so good.

  My head jerks up, and I realize I’ve been asleep.

  I panic.

  I try to scramble to my feet and end up facedown in the snow instead.

  I panic again. It’s something I’m getting good at.

  I push myself up to a squatting position, which sounds like it should be easy to do but isn’t. From there I try to stand up. I fall again. Blackness envelopes me—the blackness of terror. I really am going to die. If I don’t get up and get moving, it really will be over.

  Another thing the Major likes to say: You can’t win if you don’t play.

  You can’t get anywhere if you don’t take at least one step, Rennie, I tell myself.

  I manage to stand. I sway against the wind and the snow. I feel dizzy. I’m going to fall again.

  And then something kicks in. It’s not a survival instinct, not really. No, instead it’s what I’ve been told is my worst quality and my principal character defect: the need to get even. I may not know where I am or how I got here or, more importantly, how I’m going to get out of here. But I remind myself that I do know why I’m here.

  I take a step.

  I know why I’m here and I know what I’m supposed to do here. I’m supposed to disappear. I’m supposed to vanish without a trace, leaving anyone who knows me to shake their head and say, “He did it again. Rennie’s been a screwup ever since, well,
ever since forever, so it’s no surprise that he screwed up again. What do you expect from a kid like that?”

  Except that that’s not what happened.

  I didn’t screw up this time. No, for once it was someone else. Someone who wants me out of the way.

  I take another step. It isn’t any easier, but I don’t even think about stopping or resting. Another Major-ism: You can rest when you’re dead.

  I’m not taking the fall for this. I am not going gentle into this miserable night (another nod to Mr. Banks and his second idol, Dylan Thomas). Not me. Not Rennie Charbonneau.

  No, I want to get even.

  I want revenge.

  TWO

  One thing I know about myself, thanks to a summer of wilderness “fun” (read: forcible confinement in a privately run boot camp for screwups like me) is that I’m fueled by rage. A “counselor” actually said that to me. We, meaning me, Jimi (real first name), Boot (real last name), Capone (real first name—I am not kidding) and Worm (first syllable of real last name that, if you ask me, truly captures the essence of the guy), were sitting around the old Coleman stove with the counselor, Gerard—not Gerry—a wannabe shrink who was working at the camp to pay off student loans before heading back to school. We were supposedly on a canoe trip, but so far we had carried the stupid things more than we had paddled them. In fact, we had spent most of the day on an uphill portage, with the promise—in a couple of days’ time—of the most “spectacular” stretch of river we had ever seen.

  Jimi, Boot, Capone, Gerard and I were all about the same height, give or take. Worm, on the other hand, was a good head and a half shorter than me. Guess who I got paired with?

  So there we were, climbing uphill pretty much all day, which is tough enough with a canoe on your head, and tougher still when it decides to rain—all day. It’s even worse when a certain vertically challenged Worm is your partner. We tried it with him in front. My thinking was that since he was uphill and I was downhill, our height difference would more or less cancel itself out. But it turned out that Worm had trouble sticking to the trail. He kept veering off in one direction or another, claiming to be looking for the best footing. I can just imagine what he would have been like in a car. He’d be zooming down the sidewalk or swerving onto people’s lawns, convinced that they were faster than the road. After an hour of that, I decided to take the lead. But you try being the tall guy going uphill with a canoe on your head. It felt like all the weight was on me. Plus, Worm complained the whole time that he was doing all the work until I was ready to strangle him or, more constructively, switch it up and let him take the lead again. Which meant going off the trail again. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.