The Seven Sequels bundle

by Orca Various

  She doesn’t see me coming. She steadies her arms on the equipment box, taking aim. I’m six meters away. There’s no time for anything but this. I pull the Colt out of my sweater, flick off the safety and swing it level with both hands. Grandpa. Bunny. Me. Maybe it runs in families. “JENNIFER,” I yell.

  She looks back at me.

  I pull the trigger.

  Click. Nothing. Click.

  Too late, I remember I never checked to see if the Colt was loaded. I throw the gun at her and miss. It bashes the equipment box and falls to the ground. Jennifer Blum swings to face me, levels her gun and everything goes into slow, silent motion. I watch the knuckle on her trigger finger start to whiten.

  And that’s when AmberLea tackles her at the knees. The gun goes off. Something crashes above me, there’s a yell, and they’re down, wrestling. The gun hand gets free, clubbing wildly at AmberLea. I dive on them too, grabbing at that arm, pushing it to the ground. Everyone is writhing. I feel my glasses come off. The gun fires again. A knee rams into my stomach. I gasp, and my grip loosens.

  From out of nowhere a foot in a scuffed Blundstone boot slams down on the gun hand. There’s a nasty cracking noise, then a yell, and the hand goes limp. I look up. My mom is pointing a Glock pistol at Jennifer Blum’s head. “Make my day,” she says. She hasn’t even seen the movie.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It’s noisy in Aiden Tween’s RV. Everyone is talking at once. I can’t stop staring at the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service ID clipped to Deb’s Kevlar vest and the holstered Glock at the waist of her jeans. Not to mention the earpiece. She’s just finished telling us that they started monitoring the SPCA early in the fall and have been on the case ever since I first called her. “The problem was, we hadn’t ID’d all of them and they kept moving around, switching phones. We intercepted enough to figure out they’d try to shoot Aiden Tween if he sang the anthem. That was going to be the only way to draw them out. So we spoke with him and his people and asked him to go along with it to help save Bunny, with us guaranteeing his safety. I’ve got to give him credit. He stepped right up, said it wasn’t the first death threat he’d had.”

  “I thought that pitch I made was too easy,” AmberLea says, nodding.

  “Then we nabbed the shooters when they arrived at the concert and jammed the cell-phone frequencies so Jennifer Blum and the SPCA cell holding Bunny wouldn’t know.”

  “Nabbed all but one,” I say.

  Deb nods and raises a hushing finger. She hasn’t told AT’s people how close Jennifer Blum came to killing him. “We should have taken her then too. We knew she was the brains at this end, but not part of the muscle. Anyway, we owe you big-time for being on to her. Thank you. It was also very brave and very stupid of you to go up against her unarmed.”

  “I didn’t think I was unarmed,” I said. “I had this.” I hold up the Colt .45. “I found it at the cottage. In The Anatomy of Melancholy.”

  “Ah.” Deb sighs. “Right. I knew I’d left something there. The bullets were in another book, Yesterday’s Spy.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Fortunately,” Deb says. “There are too many guns already. I’ll take it.” She holds out her hand. I’d picked up the Colt after the wrestling match; now I hand it to her.

  “Where do you keep your gun?” I ask.

  “An armory at Department of National Defence. I have to apply to sign one out. Anyway,” Deb says, “the FBI and Homeland Security in the States have been staking out the Newman house where Bunny’s being held, and judging by the amount of pizza their fake delivery guy has taken to the door, Bun is fine. They’ll be going in any minute,” she says, looking at her watch, “and they’ve assured me it will be a quick, easy takedown. I should get back to M3C to monitor.”

  “M3C?” AmberLea says.

  “Mobile Communication and Command Centre,” Deb says, as I realize Bond is warbling in my pocket. I pull out my phone. Deb says, “Looks as if we’ve stopped jamming those band frequencies.” I squeeze through the crowd and out the RV door.

  “Hello?”

  “Spencer?”

  “Bunny? Bunny! Where are you?”

  There’s a dead spot in the reception, then I hear, “—o. I’m in a car.”

  If he’s in New York State, I bet that “o” is the end of Buffalo. “Fantastic, Bun! Rolling home.” I’m actually jumping up and down. Bun starts to talk, but I can’t stop. “Mom said you’d be okay. Man, am I ever glad.”

  “Mom?” he says.

  “Yeah, she knows all about you. And guess what? She’s CSIS.”

  A passing roadie looks at me curiously. I realize now I’m spinning around in little circles. I slow down and straighten my glasses. There’s a crackle on the line, and I hear Bun say something: “…the cops. Tell…” Then he doesn’t say anything, or there’s another dead spot. I hear “getaway…skates…” and then “don’t…”

  “Don’t?” I say back.

  “Whatever—” I lose the signal again. “Can’t hear you, Bun.” Not that it matters right now. He’s on his way home; that’s what counts.

  “Don’t worry about me.” His voice comes through loud and clear.

  “Okay, see you soon. Have fun.” I click off and hustle back inside. “That was Bun,” I crow. “He’s safe. On his way.”

  “Thank God,” Deb says. She closes her eyes, puts her hand over her Kevlared heart and whooshes out a big breath. She hugs us both. After a moment she says to AmberLea, “Luckily, the rest here were amateurs. We had the other shooters rounded up the second they stepped off the streetcar.”

  “The streetcar?”

  “Well, one took the subway, actually. We’re talking low budget here, hon.”

  “Hey,” I ask. “How did you get back from a cruise ship?”

  “American Airlines, from our first port of call. Economy,” Deb adds drily, “on my credit card. We’re low-budget too. This operation maxed out department expenses for the next six months.” She turns back to AmberLea.

  “You could’ve told us all this,” I complain.

  “No, we couldn’t, Spence. We couldn’t risk you or anyone tipping them off accidentally. We made it an orange file—national security—so no one would meddle.”

  “So who is Jennifer Blum?” AmberLea says.

  “She’s a grade-three teacher with a sideline in voice-over work for commercials and cartoons. And she’s Zoltan Blum’s great-granddaughter.”

  The anthem is lying on a table beside us. I pick it up. “Did you know?” I ask.

  Mom shakes her head. “Not a clue. Also just a coincidence that my working group has the current Pianvia file. I’d never known your grandpa might have been involved. I still don’t recognize the picture in the movie.”

  I hand Deb the anthem. “It’s evidence now,” she says, pulling a ziplock bag from her pocket. “It never did much for the smell anyway.” She smiles. “I’ve got to check in with M3C, talk to Bunny.”

  I follow her down the steps. “Hey, Mom, um, how long have you…?”

  “They recruited me in grad school. Grandpa’s suggestion. It can run in families.” She gives me a tired smile. “And I rarely do this kind of thing. Usually, I’m more oversight and analysis. That’s all I can say, really.”

  I ask the big question. “Do you think Grandpa did what they said?”

  Deb sighs. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “I don’t know, Spence. Maybe that’s a sad comment in itself. Grandpa had many lives; we knew that. There’s a lot we’ll never know about. Maybe we shouldn’t. At the end of the day, the David McLean I love is the one I knew and remember.” She draws me into a hug. “And I can tell you, he would have been so proud of you tonight, just like me.”

  Outside the traffic barrier, a white cube van is idling little clouds of exhaust into the New Year’s air. CCTV SEWERSCOPE INSPECTION SERVICE it says on the side. Deb walks toward it. “I’ll try to get home tonight—or this morning,” she calls, “unless I
go to meet Bun. How’s the house looking?”

  I lie a little. “Super. Except for your office. The cookies are kind of oily though. And the van died.”

  As she walks off, I find myself wanting to ask her something else. If Bun was getting so much pizza, how come the first thing he said to me yesterday was that he was hungry? I don’t ask. I’ve heard from Bun. Maybe there are things we shouldn’t know, even at the end.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I go back inside. My glasses fog over, but I find AmberLea anyway. She’s near Aiden Tween, who’s standing with Toby in a circle of people. “Hot damn,” AT is drawling, his accent back, “he’d a’ taken a bullet for me!”

  It occurs to me that Aiden Tween took a big risk to help save Bunny, and Toby took a big risk to try to save AT. Maybe I’ve been a little wrong about them. In fact, apart from Dusan/Jennifer, I’ve been wrong about a lot of people in the last few days. “He didn’t know mah jacket was bulletproof and national security was all over it,” AT cries. “He was willin’ to lay it on the line!” His arm is draped over Toby’s shoulder. Given the height differential, that’s not as easy as it sounds. Toby’s arm is over AT’s shoulders too. They give each other a squeeze that’s, um, well…let’s just say maybe I’ve been wrong about other stuff too. “Hey,” I say to AmberLea, “is Toby…?”

  “You’d have to ask him,” she says. “Let’s just say he’s a big fan.”

  “Wow,” I say. “I sure had some things wrong.”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind. Do you want to go back to the hotel for the after-party?”

  “Not really. Do you? I should text my mom. We’re supposed to meet her soon, remember?”

  “Okay. Let’s leave the party to Toby.”

  She leads the way. As we squeeze through the crowd, I notice we’re holding hands. I try to be cool about it. I think about the sexy bit in Ipcress File where someone asks, “Do you always wear your glasses?” Unfortunately, I’m the one wearing glasses, so I can’t ask it. AmberLea saves me with a better line. Outside, she checks her phone. “It’s after midnight. Happy New Year.” She turns to me. We’re still holding hands.

  “Happy New Year,” I say back. “What do you want to do?”

  “Right this minute?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Make my day,” she says.

  Which cues our kiss.

  THIRTY-NINE

  JANUARY 1

  Deb still isn’t home when AmberLea arrives at noon. This gives me time for a last tidy-up, which includes dumping the shortbread and washing the smell of gun oil out of the cookie jar. Jer calls, in from yurting with Grandpa Bernie. I say Happy New Year, tell him about the van and save the rest for later. I wonder how much he knows about Deb’s other career. Deb texts to say there are things to wrap up, but she hopes she and Bun will join AmberLea, Toby and me for New Year’s dinner tonight. AmberLea is going home tomorrow.

  AmberLea and I drive north, same route as last time. At Gravenhurst we detour to go by the cottage AmberLea’s grandma owned. The place is shuttered, the road unplowed. A real-estate sign with a red SOLD sticker on it is nailed to a tree. We sit in the Cayenne, talking and holding hands for a few minutes, and then I navigate us through Bala and on to Port Carling.

  At Grandpa’s cottage, a fresh snowfall has wiped our last visit away. I see the neighbors have gone home too. Stray flakes drift down as I climb out of the SUV. “You want to do this by yourself,” AmberLea says. It’s not a question.

  I stomp through the snow. It’s drifted around the back door, but I clear it away and let myself in. The gray light and stillness are like being underwater. Every sound is magnified. I open the secret compartment and take out the golf balls.

  Down at the shore of the frozen lake is silence. The same wind that drifted snow around the back of the cottage has scoured the ice clear. The sky is white. With numb fingers, I scoop a ball out of the net bag. I hold it for a moment, gathering my strength. Then I heave the ball as high and as hard as I can, out over the ice on the lake. For an instant it vanishes into the purity overhead. Then it begins to fall.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As Eric Walters likes to say, he who goes fastest, goes alone; those who go farthest, go together. Stories and books are seldom purely solitary creations, and this one was no exception. I think we traveled a long way.

  Many people deserve credit for the good bits; anything you didn’t like should come straight back to me. First off, my thanks again to Eric Walters for the initial series idea and for generously inviting me to take part. I’ve had a fantastic time with this. Also, my thanks to Richard Scrimger and John Wilson, who got together with me over a beer one night (imagine the three of us hovering over one bottle) as we came up with the themes of espionage and dubious loyalty that drive this second series. While he’s still hovering, further thanks to Richard for his ingenuity and enthusiasm in again linking our stories. Hats off also to Norah, Shane and Sigmund for their willingness to share ideas and companionship on the road as we promoted the first series and got this one up and running.

  As always, my thanks on the home front to Margaret and Will for their patience, good humor and advice as they listened, read, reread, hand-held and gently suggested things far too sensible for me to ever think of on my own. Sometimes I think I only write so I can listen to their input.

  Then there’s the Sanders family (to whom I owe a gramophone and ski tips), Muskoka expert Frank Rolfe, Ed Greenwood, who can conjure a DVD of The Ipcress File and Bond trivia with equal aplomb, and the nameless owner of the crocogator/grow op establishment reported in the Toronto Star. You can’t make up stuff like that.

  Coda is intended to be an affectionate spoof of classic espionage tales. A number of writers and titles are name-checked in the story, particularly Len Deighton, whose words also provided part of the epigraph for this book. My thanks to all of them for countless hours of reading pleasure.

  And I can’t wait a moment longer to thank Sarah Harvey, my editor. Her keen eye and ear, humor and willingness to thrash out a plot point or character gave me confidence that it would all work out in the end. Kudos and a medal for perseverance (and bravery) to Sarah as well for editing all of the Seven titles, and to the folks at Orca who work so hard on the series.

  Finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader, not only for hanging in all the way through a long set of acknowledgments, but for supporting Seven. You make all the difference.

  TED STAUNTON divides his time between writing and a busy schedule as a speaker, workshop leader, storyteller and musical performer for children and adults. Ted is the author of numerous books for young readers of all ages, including Puddleman, the Morgan series and the acclaimed Hope Springs a Leak, which was shortlisted for both a Silver Birch and a Hackmatack Award. His most recent novel is the YA mystery thriller Who I’m Not. Ted lives in Port Hope, Ontario. Coda is the sequel to Jump Cut, Ted’s novel in Seven (the series).

  RICHARD SCRIMGER

  THE WOLF AND ME

  O R C A B O O K P U B L I S H E R S

  To my daughter, Thea, with love and thanks

  for being herself.

  HELP. COME NOW. IM IN TRUBBLE.

  No thats not rite. I have to do the last word again. I rub it out. Im working on my spelling. Mr Wing says its way better than when I came to Creekside last summer. But Im still pretty bad.

  TROUBLE.

  I think about what else I shuld rite. I only have 1 small sheet of paper and there isnt room for much. The pencil is a stub—I hold it in my thum and 2 fingers. The room is cold and my breath makes puffy little clouds when I breath out.

  BE CARE FULL. BAD GUYS WITH GUNS.

  Now I need to rite where I am or how will they find me?

  NEWMAN.

  Thats the most important thing. The name on the male box. I saw it when I got here. I was feeling sick from the long drive in the dark and when the guys in the masks pulled me out of the trunk of the car I fell down on my hands and nees an
d started throwing up. The mask guys jumped out of the way and went Eww. When I finished throwing up I felt better. I took deep breaths and wiped away my swet. And thats when I saw the male box at the end of the drive. It was nite and the car lites were shining on it and there was the name in brite red letters on the gray metal of the male box. NEWMAN.

  I want help to come to the rite place. I stand up on my bed and stare out my little window. Theres snow piled up aganest the bottom of the window cause I am in the basement. And theres bars running up and down the window like jail bars. I rite down what I can see thru the window past the bars and the piled up snow.

  WOOD FENCE. WHITE BARN. THING THAT GOES ROUND.

  You know those things. They point where the wind blows. This one is shaped like an arrow with a sun on top.

  ROAD WITH 40 SINE.

  That’s the speed limit. The sine is past the fence down the road from the house. Not a lot of cars go by but when they do thats how fast they go. 40.

  I get down from my bed and read over my note. Theres nothing else to put in. Pine trees and clouds and snow is the only other stuff I can see and that wont help anybody find me. Theres a bit of room at the bottom of the paper so I print my name.

  BUNNY OTOOLE.

  Thats me.

  Its a pretty good note. Anyone reading it will know theres a guy named Bunny who needs help. They will look for a farm with a white barn belonging to Newman. If they are police they will come. And if they are not police they will go to the police.

  I put the note in my pocket and wait for Vi. She is the nice 1 of the bad guys. There are 3 others or maybe more—its hard to say how many they are cause they all look the same when they wear masks. Vi doesnt wear a mask. Also she doesnt yell at me or push me around. Thats how I know shes nice. She told me her name and said she wanted to help me. What we are doing is rong, she said. WRONG. Our cause is rite but this is wrong. Kid napping is wrong.