My device buzzed, showing a 416 area code. Toronto. I’d been expecting the call. Noon here in Vancouver, three PM there.
It wasn’t the most convenient time to take a call. Victor Lang was facing another beating, and this time it looked like I had no choice but to step in.
It was Saturday, and I was back in my geek disguise in the park opposite M.T. Matthews school, watching Victor Lang sitting alone reading comic books. Just as five high-school kids walked up to him, I’d been thinking about the unfortunate choice of initials for a school. M.T.—empty. Empty Matthews school?
Even though I should have been thinking about the blackmailing problem that Deanna Steele had shared with me the afternoon before at Timmies, Empty Matthews school had led my brain down a very juvenile path of silly book titles and authors. Rusty Bedsprings, by I.P. Nightly, and the sequel, Down the Yellow River, by I.P. Dailey. All Alone, by Saul E. Terry. Allegiance to the King, by Neil Down.
I knew dozens of similar titles and names because when we were younger, Bentley would sneak into my bedroom late at night when he was scared or lonely, which was basically every night. When I’d discovered that he giggled like crazy over these kinds of silly titles and author names, I’d make sure to have two or three new ones each night to distract him. Then he’d started finding ones to bring to me, and it had become another way to bond as brothers.
Athletic Supporter, by Jacques Strap. Credit Cards, by Bill Melater. And our all-time favorite, Big Fart, by Hugh Jass. Bentley had laughed so hard telling me that one, he’d fallen on his back and kicked his legs in the air, repeating it five or six times more. He was ten.
One of my favorite memories. And that one, like all the others I could flip through like a photo album, could be destroyed by this incoming call.
My phone rang as I stood up from the bench and began walking toward Victor and the five bigger boys surrounding him. They were clearly high-school age like me. Looked like jocks with a sheen of nastiness to them. It’s what traveling in packs tended to do to humans oozing testosterone.
“Jace Wyatt,” I said. “Yes. And the password is: ‘infinite possibilities.’ Is it a match?”
I just wanted a yes or a no. I had no time for pleasantries, not with the aggression I could see rising in the nasty jocks gathered around Victor.
The woman on the other end confirmed my identity and began the preamble about test results and the mathematical odds that made it impossible for them to be wrong on a paternity test.
Ahead of me, two kids, one on either side of Victor, had grabbed his arms.
“I’m sorry. I realize this will sound rude,” I said, interrupting, “but I’m in the middle of an urgent situation. I can call back later for more details. What I’d like right now is for you to give me a yes, it’s positive, or a no, it’s not.”
She gave me the answer.
I hit End and slipped the device back into my pocket.
I broke into a run. Victor was about to take the first of what looked like a flurry of punches.