The question made me immediately lose my appetite. It came from my biological father, “Speed” Paulsen, who was certainly not supposed to be in the motor coach. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to be in my life at all. Not according to the restraining order. But there he was, grinning, yawning, and strutting out of my parents’ bedroom on their million-dollar coach like he owned it. Only Speed could make me forget about food.
Speed is short, with long hair hanging to his shoulders. He always wears cowboy boots with big heels to make him look taller. It never works. His hair was strung with colored feathers. It had glass beads and all other kinds of jewelry and weird stuff braided into it. His jeans were shredded and torn. It would have been a kindness to toss them in the trash. But they probably cost a couple of thousand dollars. He had a big goofy smile on his face as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Hey, Q,” he said. “Where you been, man?”
I was too dumbfounded to answer.
He looked at Angela. “I’m sorry, what was your name again, kiddo?”
“Uh. Angela. And. Uh. Hello,” she mumbled. She stared at me in utter amazement. We were certain we’d ditched Speed at a hospital a few miles back up the road. Apparently we were wrong.
Truthfully, it would have been less shocking to see Bigfoot walk out of the bedroom. I was speechless, frozen in place. Boone, on the other hand … well, let’s just say Boone had a much different response to finding Speed on the coach.
We had just stopped for gas near an outlet mall. Felix, one of the SOS crew, had been driving. He needed to get out to stretch his legs. Boone was a roadie who’d been around the music business for years. He was also a spy. Or had been. Or still was. He was apparently a lot of things Angela and I had yet to figure out.
But right now he was mostly angry. The object of his anger was Speed Paulsen. My biological father, famous rock star, and generally one of the world’s most weirdly likeable, yet still thoroughly annoying human beings.
I was standing next to the dining-room table in the middle of the coach. It’s where Angela and I spent most of our time. We either did homework or, more likely, used her laptop to keep tabs on an international terror network. Most recently we’d sat there using the laptop to track Bethany Culpepper, the president’s kidnapped daughter. Yes. That president. Of the United States.
A few hours earlier, Boone had successfully coordinated Bethany’s rescue. She’d been kidnapped by a group of terrorists who called themselves the “ghost cell.” Angela’s mother, Malak Tucker, was undercover, deep inside the cell. Boone ran the operation that saved Bethany and preserved Malak’s identity.
In a night full of strange things, Speed had shown up on the interstate, right in the middle of our pursuit of Bethany’s kidnappers. He claimed to be looking for me. According to him, he wanted to spend some time together before he headed to Florida for a vacation. That was a lie. Speed Paulsen rarely paid attention to me. Unless there were cameras present.
Angela had seen Speed in action at a hospital in Virginia a few hours earlier. As I said, we thought for sure we’d successfully evaded him. Wrong.
But now that the shock of seeing him where he wasn’t supposed to be had worn off, Boone’s anger boiled over. Boone was at the front of the coach. Faster than I could see, he was suddenly behind Speed. It was almost like there were two Boones, like he went through another dimension or some kind of wormhole. Or he hypnotized us. Truthfully, I had no idea how he did it. My life’s goal is to be a world famous magician. Boone was performing the greatest magic trick ever right in front of me and I had no clue how he was doing it.
When Boone appeared behind him, Speed yelped. Then he made this really weird ummph sound. The next thing we knew, Boone had him on the floor. He was kneeling on top of him, his right knee in the middle of Speed’s back.
There was a furious scratching sound at the door of the coach.
Boone glanced up at me. The momentary flash of anger was replaced by his usual calm expression, as if wrestling a guy half his age was something he did every day. “That’s Croc. Let him in.”
Speed was trying hard to say something, but all we could hear were grunting noises because his face was buried in the carpet. I cracked opened the door and Croc leaped through it, heading straight for Speed. He crouched near his head, making that low in-the-throat dog growl. The kind that tells you, “make one wrong move and I will bite off your face.” Which would have been interesting to see. Croc is possibly the world’s oldest living dog and barely has any teeth.
“Get off me, you ancient roadie!” Speed finally managed to twist his head to the side. “And get this dog outta my face, man. His breath smells worse than yours!”
Boone was undeterred. His hands roamed over Speed’s back, arms, and legs like he was the star of a TV cop show and had just busted a perp. “Do you have any weapons, Speed?” he asked. “Any needles? Anything sharp that might cut me?”
“What? No, you freakin’ geezer! Have you lost what little mind you have left, man?” Speed struggled, but Boone had him firmly on the floor. Boone, laid-back as he was, could occasionally have an edge to him. In the past few days he’d pulled a gun on a Mossad agent. Then he disappeared and reappeared in and around a bunch of heavily armed terrorists like he was in some Hollywood action movie. And they never had a clue he was there. At that moment, Speed was a little overmatched, to say the least.
“Angela,” Boone said. “I need you to go outside and keep our driver occupied.”
I looked at Angela and she shot me a puzzled glance. Both of us noticed Boone had said “our driver,” not “Felix.”
Angela’s eyes bored into me as she exited the coach. I knew exactly what her look meant. I was going to be quizzed later and I’d better remember every detail. Angela was all about details.
In addition to rescuing people and popping in and out of thin air, Boone was in charge of security for my mom and stepdad’s concert tour. Mom and Roger—Angela’s dad—had gotten married a few days ago. We were traveling to concert venues around the country. Together they performed as Match. Their newest song, “Rekindled,” had rocketed to #1 on the charts and looked like a sure bet to go double platinum. Which probably had a lot to do with the fact that Speed was poking around. If my mom so much as managed to solve the daily New York Times crossword puzzle, Speed became insanely jealous. He didn’t like it when she succeeded at anything.
Just a few hours earlier, Angela and I had learned about Boone’s strange ability. One that Croc seemed to share. It was the kind of stuff we weren’t quite able to wrap our minds around. Now we had another thing to add to our ever-growing list. Apparently, Boone was also a grizzled, gray-haired, ponytailed ninja.
Of course, Speed was no threat. The man had the muscle tone of boiled spaghetti and he weighed maybe a hundred forty pounds if he was wearing his solid-gold belt buckle that was a replica of the Grammy Award. Which he always was. He never missed a chance to let anyone know he’d won a Grammy. Once.
Boone shifted his weight, holding Speed’s wrists in one hand. He ran his free hand along Speed’s legs, yanked off his boots, and tossed them in the galley sink.
“Hey, man, those are python skin! They cost more than you make in two years.”
“Shut up,” Boone muttered. “And you have no idea how much I make.”
Python skin. I doubted that. Knowing Speed, they were probably the skin of a velociraptor that had been frozen in ice and that he’d found on the black market somewhere. Speed was about to complain again when Boone quickly flex-cuffed his hands (where in the world had he gotten flex-cuffs?) and lifted him to his feet with one arm. He pushed Speed, not gently, into a seat at the table.
While all of this unfolded before me, I still hadn’t moved from my spot.
“Hey, man, what are you—” Speed choked off the words because Croc had jumped onto the table. His snout was now inches from Speed’s face. I didn’t remember seeing Croc jump up there. Like I said, none of us knew how old Croc and Boone were, exactly. But I knew Croc shouldn’t be frolicking around like a puppy.
“What are you doing here, Speed?”
“Screw you, man! Nobody treats Speed Paulsen like this. I’ll have you arrested, man.”
“Speed. I’m losing whatever patience I had with you, which was miniscule to begin with. What are you doing here and how did you get into the coach?” Boone said.
“Up yours, man!” Speed said.
Croc swiveled his head up to look at Boone. They were silent for a moment. I wasn’t sure if they weren’t communicating via telepathy.
“All right,” Boone said. “We’ll play it your way.” He turned to look at me. “Q, let’s step into the rear of the coach. Croc is going to have a little discussion with Mr. Paulsen.”
Curiosity killing me, I followed Boone to the back of the tour bus, where Mom and Roger’s master bedroom was. I glanced back to see Croc creeping across the table until his snout was less than an inch from Speed’s face. He was making that scary growly noise again.
Boone closed the door to the bedroom. A lot of low snarls, unfriendly barks, scratching, and clawing sounds later, we heard from Speed. It had taken less than thirty seconds.
“Come back here, dude, right now! Get this mutt away from me!” he shouted.
Boone inspected his fingernails while I stared at him in disbelief. Finally, I worked up the nerve to speak.
“Uh, Boone?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing to my da … to Speed?” I was a little torn. Boone had saved our lives. But Speed was still my father. And I’m not the type of person who wants to see anybody get mauled by a mad dog.
“Boone, you freak! Call off this bag of stinky fur, man!” Speed howled.
Boone opened the door and we filed back into the dining area.
“All right, all right!” Speed was pleading now. “Get this dog away from me, man.”
Boone didn’t say anything. Croc jumped down off the table and trotted to the shotgun seat of the coach where he sat on his haunches. He stared at Speed as if ready to observe Speed’s confession. Or eat him at Boone’s command. I wasn’t sure which.
“One more time. How did you get into the coach?” Boone asked Speed.
“Q happened to mention there was a hide-a-key in the wheel well,” Speed sputtered.
I gulped. He wasn’t lying. When we were sitting outside the coach in the yellow Hummer he was driving, I’d told him about the spare key. Now I was worried Boone might be angry, but he didn’t seem to care.
“I left the hospital in the Hummer, man. It wouldn’t start and some doctor helped me get it running. As soon as I was on the road it acted all funky again and I turned around to go back. I’d lost Q at the hospital but figured he’d show up at the coach eventually. So I got the key and came inside. I just fell asleep in the back is all….” Speed was looking everywhere around the coach except at us.
“Why’d you show up here? Why now?” Boone demanded.
“Why did you drop my Q off on the side of a busy interstate, man? He coulda got seriously hurt,” Speed shot back. “I was worried about him, man. Where’d you go to anyway, Q?” he asked me. “I came to the coach thinking I’d check on you. And stuff.”
Speed was either using drugs again or rattled by his upclose conversation with Croc. I couldn’t be sure. What he was saying was making no sense. And he clearly wasn’t fooling Boone. Not for a minute. It also didn’t escape my notice that he said my Q, not my son. Some things never change.
“Your sudden concern is touching,” Boone said. “Last time I’ll ask what you’re doing here. And this time you’re going to tell me.” Tyrone Boone was tired of Speed’s nonsense.
“Okay, okay! I knew the tour was in D.C. I thought I could spend some time with Q before I headed down to the Keys for some R & R with some friends.”
That was a bald-faced lie. Not the going-to-the-Keys part, but the spending-time-with-me part. Unless there was a camera or a reporter around, Speed Paulsen had little interest in spending time with anyone except his entourage.
“And you just happened to show up in D.C.?” Boone asked.
“Yeah, man. You know, you hurt my arm,” Speed whined.
“Suck it up,” Boone said without an ounce of sympathy in his voice.
“Who made you the boss of the world?” Speed snarled at Boone.
“Roger and Blaze put me in charge of tour security.” Boone smirked. “You remember them, don’t you, Speed? The talented musicians?”
Speed drew back as if he’d been smacked in the face. Boone knew right where to apply the needle. Speed Paulsen, Guitarist magazine’s Guitarist of the Year for eleven years running, was extremely sensitive about his musical ability. He was a fantastic guitar player. That’s where he got his nickname. He could pick guitar faster than practically anyone alive. But he wasn’t within a dozen counties of my mom or Roger when it came to singing.
“Hey, man—” Speed started to say, but Boone talked right over him.
“Tour security means Q and Angela are in my care. I don’t like you, Speed. I’ve never liked you. Your showing up here, out of nowhere … I want to know why.”
“I just told you, man. I wanted to see Q,” Speed said.
I was going to mention the restraining order. It would have prevented him from seeing me, but thought the better of it. I figured Boone knew what he was doing. Best keep my mouth shut, I decided.
“You and me had our differences back in the day,” Speed was saying to Boone. “When I heard you were running security on the tour, I knew you’d keep me from seeing him. Which is totally harsh and unreasonable, by the way, man. So I wanted to get together with him before—” He didn’t get a chance to finish.
Hefting Speed up with one hand like he was made of cotton candy, Boone bum-walked him to the small lavatory in between the galley and the master bedroom.
“Hey! What are you doing, man?” Speed protested. “You can’t put me in here.” His hands were still bound behind him.
“Speed!” Boone said. It wasn’t exactly a shout or a threat, but something in the tone made Speed stop squirming.
“You’re going to stay in here for as long as I say, until I figure out what to do with you. And you’re going to be quiet about it. Or else I’ll send Croc in with you. It’ll be nice and cozy.” He shoved Speed inside and shut the door. There was complete silence from the lav.
Boone strode past me toward the front of the coach. “I need to think,” he said. “You and Angela go with Felix to the Big and Tall Shop and also get something to eat. Tell him I’ll move the coach after he tops off the tank. Something doesn’t make sense here.”
Felix needed new clothes because he’d nearly blown himself up when one of the ghost cell car bombs exploded on the side of the road. At the moment, he was six feet seven inches of scorched flesh. He needed duds that didn’t smell like smoke in the worst way. I was torn because I thought it might be entertaining watching Felix shop for new clothes. But then, Speed was here and I wanted to know how this was going to play out. Not knowing was going to make Angela grumpy. She’d want to know what he was up to.
“Okay,” I said on my way out the door. It was all I could do.