After dinner, Toby, AmberLea and Tina are going to a new zombie movie. I beg off. All at once, I’m so out of it that I just want to go home. It also occurs to me that if somehow Mom is right and Bun’s just lost his phone, he might not remember my cell number. That would mean he’d call O’Toole Central.
As we leave, I slip the calendar with the music inside it to AmberLea, to put in the hotel safe. “Oooh, vintage collectible,” says Tina. “You found that at the mall?”
“Little place north of the city,” I say and start for home.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow,” Tina calls. I wave.
I ride the 501 Red Rocket home and shuffle down Tecumseth Street to O’Toole Central. As I turn in at our place, fumbling for my key, there’s a rustling in the bushes. I’m knocked to the ground. I gasp and try to scramble up. A knee, or something, slams into my back, driving me down again. “Stay down and you won’t get hurt.” The weight crushes my back. I can barely breathe. Hands rake my legs, feel under my sweater. One brushes the wig and cell phone in my sweater pocket and moves on. I have the gun jammed painfully under my hip. The hand doesn’t check there. Instead, it grips my head, forcing it down. “Where is it?” The voice is harsh, panting.
“Not…here,” I gasp. “Someplace…safe.” My cheek grinds against the frozen dirt. My glasses are half off. Somewhere close by, a car starts up. It needs to visit one of the Mimico muffler-repair places I passed early this morning. The hands let go. Footsteps slap away. I roll over and fumble my glasses on in time to see the passenger door slam on an old gray Honda Civic. It roars away, one side of the rear bumper sagging. I stagger to the house.