Everybody helped lay the stuff out on the kitchen table. There was money from all over the world, a net bag of golf balls with Russian printing, a cheesy wig and beard, passports from different countries with different names but all with Grandpa’s picture, a notebook and an envelope. On the front of the envelope you could read the imprint of some words: You are a traitor. You deserve to die.
You can see why everyone got a little crazy. DJ went ballistic when he saw the traitor note. In ten seconds flat, we’d all decided Grandpa was a spy. Then I wasn’t so sure. Grandpa D was more than a bit of a practical joker. He’d flip the plane upside down if you were flying with him, that kind of thing. In fact, for a while last summer I’d thought the adventure with Gloria Lorraine was a trick he’d set up too.
This was too perfect. DJ was paging through the notebook, saying, “The words don’t make sense,” and I said, “Maybe it’s secret code,” remembering the way Jer had teased Deb back at home.
“I think you’re right,” DJ said. He’s not wired for sarcasm. It didn’t matter, because that’s when the gun went off. That flipped all of us out.
“What do we do now?” Webb asked when things calmed down.
Bun made the only intelligent suggestion. “Maybe we should call our moms.” It was too late. DJ was already yelling and tearing apart the notebook, matching parts of it up with the passports.
“Okay, so they connect,” Webb said, still reasonable. “Now what?”
“Nothing,” Adam said. “Unless we’re going to all these places to figure it all out.”
Right, I thought. You go, boys.
I chipped in with, “Yeah! We have, like, whole hours before our parents would know we were gone!”
Turns out none of them were wired for sarcasm. Next thing you know, everyone was grabbing money and passports and notebook pages. I think Adam had a flight booked before I could open the potato chips.
Bun and I, naturally, weren’t going anywhere. Bun would have had a little trouble with borders, for one thing, and I was going to meet up with AmberLea.
“But the movie picture,” Bun said. “See? It fits. There’s a disguise kit.”
“That disguise stuff wouldn’t fool a four-year-old,” I said. “And his hair’s the wrong color. All those passports had photos of Grandpa the way he really looked. Plus, there was nothing about Pianvia. Anyway, they think he’s a spy, not a hit man. We’ll tell Mom about this stuff, like you said. That was a good idea. I bet it’s all junk from some spy-theme party Grandpa threw a million years ago.”
“What about the gun?”
“Maybe Grandpa got it when he flew bush planes in Africa. I dunno, Bun.”
And I really didn’t. When DJ dropped us off in Toronto, I said, “Guess you can’t hang with Bun this aft, huh?”
He gave me a get-real look. “I’ve got to scan and email this stuff to Steve in Spain. Then I’ve got a flight to London, Spence.”
“Right.”
His window hummed shut. We waved as he drove away. “Let’s go skating,” Bunny said.