Coda: The Seven Sequels

by Ted Staunton

  Inside, a tube of something labeled Skinbind nestles in a bundle of yellow fur. I jump back, thinking it’s an animal, then gingerly pull out what looks to be a fake beard and mustache. They’re like the stupid disguises I brought back from the cottage. Below them is a file folder and a CD jewel case. The jewel case holds an Aiden Tween CD. In the folder are snapshots of Deb, Jer, me and Bunny. One of Bun has been shot through a wire fence. I recognize a Creekside building in the background. There’s another of Jer and Bun getting out of the van at O’Toole Central, probably the day Bun came home. There are also photos of AmberLea and Toby and me stepping out of the elevator in the lobby of Aiden Tween’s hotel.

  What’s left in the bag is even creepier. It’s a small cardboard box stamped with numbers and labeled HOLLOW POINT. Inside are two tidy rows of bullets, like miniature moon rockets. My times around guns have never been happy, and I know what “hollow point” means from the movies: the heads of the bullets flatten on impact to rip a bigger hole in whatever they’ve hit. I take the bullets out of the box and put them in AmberLea’s jacket pocket. Next, I scrabble up some stones from the gravel of the parking lot and dump them in the box, so that it weighs about the same as it did before. Then I put everything back just the way I found it. Before I close the hatch, I take the jumper cables and use the jagged copper teeth on one of the clamps to tear the plastic strip holding the right side of the bumper to the car. The end of the bumper clonks to the ground. It should take a while to fix, maybe long enough for us to go home on our own.

  TWENTY-TWO

  We get back to the city around suppertime, well ahead of whoever’s tailing us. When we’d met up again, Amberlea told me she’d taken the chair to the top of the highest run and made sure Black Mustache got off too before she started down. A while later, after we’d changed back into our own clothes and I’d discovered she’d split my jeans, we saw the ski patrol bringing down someone who could have been our guy. I almost felt sorry about the bumper. The bullets, I’d flushed down the toilet.

  I did more thinking on the way home, and I know what I need to do. Thinking had been hard, too, because it seemed as if AmberLea was leaning a little closer to me than she needed to. I’d tried leaning her way, but the shoulder belt messed me up.

  At the hotel, AmberLea gets the dairy calendar with the music in it from the front-desk safe. “Want me to go with you?” she asks.

  “Nah, I can handle it,” I say. Really, I do want her to come with me, but it would be wussy to say so.

  “I think you’re doing the right thing. Sorry about your jeans.”

  “No problem,” I say, even though they were my favorites.

  “Call me when you’re done.”

  The duty officer at the police station doesn’t bat an eye when I tell him I want to report a kidnapping. It’s only when I start trying to explain the whole thing with Bunny and the SPCA and the movie, and I pull out the calendar, that he tells me to hold on. He makes a call, then gets another cop to take me upstairs to see someone else.

  The second cop shows me into a room that has a table with a telephone, a couple of chairs and the classic mirror on the wall—two-way, I’m guessing, based on every cop movie I’ve ever seen. A video camera stares at me from a bracket near the ceiling. I unzip the shell and fleece, because I’m starting to get hot, and sit down, which at least hides the split in my pants. Then I do my best “innocent” act all over again. It’s that kind of place.

  The cop who comes in could be right out of a movie: big, with a bullet head and buzz-cut hair, tie loose, collar unbuttoned, five-o’clock shadow so dark that his gum-chomping chin is blue. Good, I think. Right now a take-charge pro is what I need. His eyes flick to the Muskoka Dairy calendar on the table, then back to me. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  I’m barely started when the cop cuts in. “Bunny? That a nickname?”

  I nod. “For Bernard. Bernard O’Toole.”

  He stops chewing. “Bernard O’Toole.” He hammers at a laptop he’s brought in. “Two Tecumseth Street?”

  “That’s it.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not again. Your brother is a known affiliate of the Fifteenth Street Posse, a street gang in Mimico. He’s also currently serving a year less a day in Creekside Juvenile Detention Centre. I put him there. So why don’t you tell me how a punk in prison is being kidnapped at city hall? What kind of put-on is this?”

  “It’s not,” I say. “He’s out.”

  “He’s out?”

  “Well, just for Christmas, under this new CRAP program. You know: Constructive Rebound something something. His supervisor is Roz Inbow.”

  The cop swears a streak bluer than his chin and jabs at the laptop again. Then he looks at me. Now his smile reminds me of an alligator I met recently. I also know exactly why the guy looks familiar: he was at Bunny’s court hearing. “Well, so he is,” he says. “Supervisor Inbow. And I see there’s a warrant out for his arrest for violating the terms of his release.

  So why don’t you tell me where he is?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. I don’t know where he is; he’s been kidnapped.”

  “It runs in the family, huh? You’re all smart guys? Quit covering for him before you get yourself in trouble too. He put you up to this? Where is he? With the Posse?” Saliva sprays. It wouldn’t surprise me if a few teeth came out too.

  “No, with the SPCA.” He rolls his eyes. I feel sweat trickling under my arms. “Not the SPCA SPCA, but the Save Pianvia Counterrevolutionary Army SPCA. They’ve got guns, snipers. I found bullets this afternoon in a car at that Brimacombe ski place.”

  That gets his attention. “Ammunition? You found bullets?”

  “Hollow point, the box said.”

  “Describe the car.”

  “An old gray Civic with a sagging back bumper.”

  “License?”

  Oh. “Uh, I forgot to get it,” I say. “But I got the bullets.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Well, I flushed them down the toilet at the ski place.”

  “Naturally.” The cop puts both football-sized hands flat on the table and leans toward me, leading with his Smurf-blue chin. “You know what the penalty is for making a false statement to police?”

  “It’s not false! They’ve grabbed Bunny because they want this!” I show him the calendar.

  “I’ll bet they do—1965 dairy calendars are really valuable.”

  “Not that. This!” I pull out the anthem.

  “Uh-huh, and the flowers are by Picasso.” He shoves back, hawks and spits on the floor. Suddenly a monster finger is right between my eyes. “Look, bleep-for-brains. Don’t cover for your deadbeat brother. I should book you for misleading, but I won’t. This time. Because instead, I’m gonna have the bleeping pleasure of watching you tell this load of horse bleep to the one who should really hear it.”

  You can fill in the bleeps yourself. He grabs the phone and punches in a number. “You’re still here? Good. Come on down to number twenty-four…I know it’s late…No, but I got someone named O’Toole here wants to see you. Yeah. Yeah, I thought you’d want to.” He hangs up and gives me another alligator-Smurf smile. “There’s still time to talk to the nice guy,” he says. I keep my mouth shut, and we wait. The chair is hard. I can feel the split in my pants. I’m melting in my fleece. And all I can think is, Wrong again, Spencer.

  The door opens and in buzzes a tiny Asian lady with short hair and glasses like mine except oversized. She has a puffy overcoat on and a laptop case over one shoulder. She stops dead when she sees me. “You’re not Bernard.” I know the voice. It’s twice as big as she is, and it belongs to Roz Inbow. Even if she looks nothing like I’d imagined, and at least two centuries younger, I know I’m doomed.

  Before I can say anything, Smurf Cop says, “Nah, this is a future client. His brother—or so he says. He’s got such a horse-bleep story about your guy Bernard, I thought you should hear it before I toss him—or charge him.”

&nb
sp; I think of Harry, the Ipcress File guy, jabbing his hand with the wire as they torture him, and I feel an angry little surge. “It’s not horse bleep,” I say. “Bunny’s been kidnapped and—”

  “Whoa.” Roz Inbow raises a hand. “I don’t need to hear this. I don’t want to hear this. It’s already been a day.”

  “But my brother’s been—”

  “I said, whoa.” Roz Inbow turns to Smurf Cop. The top of her head is level with his, and he’s sitting down. And she’s wearing boots with heels. “Harv, FYI, this is now filed orange anyway.”

  “Whaaat? It’s not flagged.”

  “Just came down. Cut it loose. Now I’m out of here. I’ve got a headache.” With that, she’s out the door.

  “BLEEP,” says Smurf Cop/Harv. He glares at me and jerks his blue chin. “Out.”

  Outside, the cold air feels good, although maybe a little too cold at the tear in my pants. That’s about all that feels good. Bun’s in danger, and except for AmberLea and Toby, who may be busy having a romance, I’m on my own. I tuck the calendar inside my coat and look around for the gray Civic, just in case. All at once I feel very exposed.

  “Mr. O’Toole!”

  I register Roz Inbow’s voice right away, but I don’t exactly get called “mister” a lot, so it takes a second to realize she’s calling me. She’s waving from a car across the street. I wait for traffic to clear, then scoot over. The car’s engine is running; the lights are on. “Listen,” she says from the driver’s seat. “Spencer, right? I just want to tell you officially that the warrant for your brother’s arrest has been rescinded.”

  “Uh, great. Thanks,” I say. “That’s maybe not his biggest problem right now.”

  “I understand. I just wanted you to know. With an orange file, it’s usually complicated. This is one less worry anyway.”

  “What’s an orange file?” I ask. A gust from a passing car flaps the rip in my pants.

  “I can’t tell you. Sorry. But,” Roz Inbow says, “I can tell you that I’ve had time to read Bernard’s file. He’s an unusual kid. There’s more going on there than meets the eye. So”—she hesitates—“if I can do anything, unofficially, to help, I’d be willing to try. Here’s my number.” She passes me a business card like the one we already have at home.

  “Thanks.” This time I mean it. Because there is something she can do. If the SPCA knows about AmberLea and Toby, the music may not be safe with them. I check over my shoulder. “Listen, could you keep this safe till I need it? Like, tomorrow maybe?” I pull the calendar out from under the fleece. “There’s a piece of paper inside. Don’t show it to anyone. Don’t even look at it.”

  Roz Inbow looks at me for a moment, then nods. She slips the calendar into her laptop bag on the passenger seat and zips the bag shut. “Don’t tell me any more.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll call you when I need it. Probably soon.”

  “I’m always around.” She puts the car in gear and flicks the turn indicator on. “And, hey, don’t let Harv get to you. All that bluster’s just an act. He’s a good guy.”

  “Right,” I say. “How do you know?”

  “I’m married to him,” Roz Inbow says. Then she drives off.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I call AmberLea. She and her mom are going to the Christmas pantomime at the Royal Alexandra Theatre. Toby has begged off, so they have an extra ticket; do I want to come along? I pass. Skiing has left my muscles feeling as pounded as the keys on Harv’s laptop. Plus there’s that rip in my jeans.

  “Where’s the music?” she asks, whispering so her mom doesn’t hear.

  “It’s safe,” I say. “Not with me. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “My phone will be on.”

  There’s an awkward little pause, then we both say, “Later,” and click off. I lurch to the streetcar stop like the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz.

  At home, everything is the way it should be: no attackers waiting, no messages on the landline, nothing more out of place than usual. I have a shortbread from the cookie jar/gun holder. It tastes a little oily. Then I grab a hot shower, which feels so good I debate staying in it forever. Unfortunately, the hot water runs out, so I creak down to the kitchen to start some mac and cheese.

  For the first time in two days I have a chance to wonder what my cousins have been doing since they raced off. I wonder who took the Walther PPK. DJ’s too straight-arrow, and I know it’s not Bun or me. That leaves Webb and Adam. It’s a toss-up. Webb is the kind of guy, to tell you the truth, who’s edgy enough that I wouldn’t want him to have a gun. He might take it though. Adam and I talked about the new Bond movie, and he recognized the gun right off. I don’t know why he’d want it though. That’s a laugh. Why do I have a gun in the cookie jar? Why did Grandpa have them at the cottage? I pour a glass of milk.

  By now the water is boiling. I stir in the macaroni and pour another glass of milk. I don’t feel quite as stiff if I keep moving, so I start pacing a circle: kitchen, dining room, living room, hall, kitchen again. My thoughts circle, too, around Grandpa. I’m remembering the Wikipedia entry for Josef Josef, the dictator who talked to the Americans in the 1960s. What I’m thinking is this: if the United States was trying to cut a deal with Josef Josef, maybe part of his price was that they get rid of Zoltan Blum. Clint the killer might really have been a CIA guy, but he wasn’t out to help Blum: he was tricking him. His real job was to kill him and get rid of the anthem. It’s a scary thought: the person you trust to help you is the one who’s out to get you. Kind of like Ipcress.

  I stop pacing. It’s time to eat. I finish making the mac and cheese and take the pot to the table. While I wait for it to cool a bit, I ask myself the next question: was the killer Clint actually David McLean? Did David McLean trick Zoltan Blum into hitting a golfball bomb? In one way, it doesn’t matter—all that matters is that the SPCA thinks he did. In another way, it matters more than anything, because what I’m really asking is, could Grandpa D do this? And what for? Patriotism? Revenge? Justice? Money?

  Part of me screams no. That’s the part that can think up innocent reasons for why he had a piece of Zoltan Blum’s music and remember that he imported Cuban golf balls. But I also remember talking about Grandpa and killing, in the kitchen before Christmas, and Bun blurting out something about ants. I didn’t get it then, but now I do. One time up at the cottage, when Bun and I were in our bunks after lights out, he said Grandpa had showed him a bayonet or something with old dried blood on it from a good guy who had died. He told Bun he took it away from a bad guy. I asked what “took away” meant. Bun didn’t know. All Grandpa had said was, The good guys are the ones on your side. After that, they’d zapped an ant nest with tins of Raid. Bun said Grandpa got right into it. I remember feeling jealous. I always figured Grandpa thought I was a wuss, because we never did much when it was just me and him, and killing ants sounded like fun. I reminded Bun that Jer said Grandpa was a killer because Grandpa flew bombers in the war. Bun had started chanting, Grandpa’s a killer, Grandpa’s a killer, until someone called to him to shut up.

  I wonder when the next call will come. I wonder where Bun is right now. I wonder if he knows who’s on his side. I wonder if any of us do.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  DECEMBER 30

  The call comes early. I’m awake instantly. Dusan’s voice says, “You hef anthem.”

  I’m squeezing my phone hard enough to crack it. “It’s in a safe place.”

  “Good. Many things happen. You hef been patient. There is change in plan.”

  “What? What do you mean? I give you the anthem, you let Bunny go.”

  “Soon. We did not know before of friendship with Aiden Tween.”

  “I’m not friends with Aiden Tween!”

  “Do not pretend. You were seen. Media say his people look for how to make him more grow up. So. You will persuade him way to do this: sing our anthem at his concert on New Year’s Eve.”

  “What?”

  “We will know is g
oing to happen when they call number I give and ask for translator for the words. We will give. He sings anthem, we release your brother.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “There was much argue about how sharp for blotzing ax. We decide to leave dull. Death longer, more painful that way. Here is number.”

  I grab a pen and scribble it down. The line goes dead.

  For a long moment I stare at nothing, fighting down the panic that’s rising with last night’s mac and cheese. Then I’m in overdrive. I dig out the card Aiden Tween’s manager guy, Sumo, gave me, and I start working the phones.

  Sumo gets the first call. “Talk to me,” is how he answers.

  “It’s Spencer O’Toole,” I say. “You wanted the Pianvia movie from me.”

  “You got it?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got something even better about Pianvia, something no one else has, and it’s perfect for AT.”

  “What is it?”

  “I have to show you both. When can we meet?”

  “One. Industrial Arts Studios. We’re rehearsing on soundstage two.”

  AmberLea gets the second call. She sounds pretty groggy. “Stayed up late to watch Alien again.” She yawns, and then her voice sharpens. “Did they call?”

  “Yeah, and things have changed. I’ll tell you later. Can you and Toby meet me to see Aiden Tween again at one? It’s all set up. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  “Well, I can. Toby’s not here. He ditched the show last night and texted me that he’d see us later today.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll tell you later. My mom’s kind of ticked. She feels responsible, you know?” Then, “It’s just Spencer, Mom,” she says. I wait while she talks to her mom. AmberLea says to me, “I can pick you up. Mom’s got friends meeting her here for lunch.”