I get up, groaning. I’ve landed on my right elbow. I rub it. Blood comes off on my palm.

  I stagger over to the phone, pick it up. “Hello?” I say.

  Dead.

  Great. I accepted Jace’s money to get ahead of the debt game, and now I’ll have to buy another cell phone.

  I groan some more, this time inserting a few choice cuss words. I head back into Turpin’s. Hopefully they have a Red Cross kit somewhere.

  Behind me, footsteps squelch on the barf-saturated welcome mat.

  I’m about to turn, when — smash. Something slams me in the skull.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I reach for my phone, but it’s doing the roulette-wheel thing again. The phone spins away from me. It morphs into the neon-red Turpin’s sign. The sign whirls — then blinks off.

  I come to. I’m in darkness. My head is killing me. So’s my elbow. And the whole sorry package that is me is jolting around like — yeah, like a ball on a roulette wheel.

  I’m curled around something. I push against it. It’s rubbery, with grooves.

  A tire.

  I’m in a car trunk.

  I’m lying on my right side. I stretch my left hand into the hollow of the tire and hold on. Then the jolting isn’t so bad. I could easily go back to sleep.

  It’s warm in here, and getting warmer. I wouldn’t mind some more sleep. Like for the next century or so …

  Faintly, through my mental fuzziness, a voice in my brain tells me to stay awake. It reminds me that carbon monoxide fumes could be creeping in.

  Being bumped around will keep me conscious, I realize. I let go of the tire.

  I think: Somebody knocked me out. They stuffed me in here. And now we’re on a road with a lot of potholes.

  Strains of music filter through the back wall of the trunk. I now know something else. Whoever this somebody is, they like country music.

  It’s a hot night in the country … And it can only get hotter …

  A Tracy Byrd song. Tracy is right on. If more fumes are pouring into the trunk, it can only get hotter.

  Killingly hot. And if the fumes don’t get me, there’s a good chance the person up front will. It’s not like you kidnap people you’re wishing a long, healthy life to.

  Why would anyone kidnap me? What a joke.

  A joke …

  The truck driver’s face looms in my mind,

  pre-barf. He’d said:

  All this time, I never realized you were a comedian.

  Then, even in my fuzzified mental state, I get it.

  The trucker mistook me for Jace Turpin — and so did the kidnapper.

  …

  I’m sweating, and not just because of the stuffy, hot air.

  That Tracy Byrd fan up front is expecting a mega-payout from old man Turpin. He won’t be pleased to find out he grabbed the wrong package.

  With my left hand I grab the tire again. I hoist myself up. I twist around so that I’m facing the back of the car. Faintly, on either side, the rear lights glow.

  I slide forward, my feet knocking against some objects that clank together. I reach back, feel for them. My fingers find cool, smooth sticks — skis. Another stick, with a metal U-shape at one end. A shovel.

  And, a coil of rope.

  As an everyday accessory to the car — or to tie me up with?

  I press my palms against the inside of the trunk lid. I drag my fingers down till they meet a crack: the lid’s bottom edge.

  Below the crack, the carpet starts. The carpet’s what I have to rip away. In newer cars than Mom’s and my Volvo — which covers most of the cars on the planet — manufacturers install a cable on trunk floors. A yank on the cable disengages the lock. The trunk springs open.

  It’s a safety measure, for little kids who are playing around and are dumb enough to get trapped in the trunk.

  …

  Or, older kids who are dumb enough to sub for a millionaire’s son.

  I clench the edge of carpet and pull. But I can’t get the carpet loose.

  From the front I hear Tracy Byrd crooning. His problem is women. Mine’s survival.

  The thought chills me. The chill tightens my muscles. I dig my fingers into the carpet again.

  At the same moment, the car takes a hairpin turn. To avoid being thrown backward, I grip the edge of carpet even harder.

  With the force of my grip, the carpet wrenches loose.

  …

  I scrabble around under the carpet till I feel the cable. I yank on it.

  Nothing.

  Wriggling on to my side, I bring my feet up. I push my soles against the bottom part of the trunk lid. I pull the cable and don’t let go. The effort is killing me, but I don’t let go.

  There’s a clean pop!, like the sound of a tennis ball hitting the centre of a racquet. The trunk lid bounces open.

  …

  I push the lid higher — but not too high, in case the driver sees it in his rearview mirror. Just enough for me to sit up and lean out, gasping in the fresh air.

  We’re on a dirt road, surrounded by forest. Grouse’s peak, muddied by the floating clouds, looms closer than it did from Turpin’s. I’m guessing we’re on an old logging road.

  The car — I think it’s a Mustang GT — keeps climbing. Far below, like a jumble of silver coins, stretch the lights of Vancouver across the Burrard Inlet.

  The Mustang’s right rear wheel plunges into a deep, wide pothole. The tire spins.

  The car’s stuck.

  If the driver keeps spinning the wheel, like most people will do for a while out of sheer frustration, I have a chance to jump out. To run.

  But the driver door opens. With a curse, the driver gets out. His footsteps crunch on stones and twigs.

  He’s heading round to the back of the car.

  …

  He wants the shovel. He’s going to move dirt under the tire to give it some traction.

  I lower the trunk lid almost shut. I don’t want the kidnapper to know I’ve released the lock.

  The crunching stops in front of me. He’s hesitating. He doesn’t know what condition I’m in: still unconscious or slightly awake and groggy. He didn’t think he’d have to open the trunk just yet.

  Still holding the lid shut, I shift so that I’m lying on my back. I draw my knees to my chest.

  I hear the clank of keys. He’s going to open the trunk.

  So he thinks.

  Letting go of the lid, I smash my feet straight up against it.

  Thunk! It smashes into the guy’s face, knocking him backward.

  I scramble out. My kidnapper struggles to a sitting position. Blood’s pouring from his nose. Stunned, he’s shaking his head to try to clear it.

  In the rear lights I see his face.

  It’s Jace Turpin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I see something else. Jace has a gun in one hand.

  I grind my foot on his wrist. He drops the gun. I pick the gun up and hurl it into the dark. I keep my foot on his wrist. “Little rich boys shouldn’t play with guns,” I tell him.

  Then I stand away. Jace staggers to his feet. His mouth is hanging open: he’s in shock. Something’s gone wrong, and that just doesn’t happen to Jace Turpin.

  He squints vainly up the dark road. “That was Ray’s gun,” he mumbles. “She bought it from a guy on the Downtown Eastside. She’ll be pissed.”

  Ray?

  Well, Colin, this date I have Friday night. Rachel Manetas.

  Rachel — Ray — who’s so hot she sizzles like a Turpin’s burger.

  In his other hand, Jace still holds the ’stang keys. He adjusts them so one of each is sticking out between his fingers. The old self-defence routine.

  I pre-empt the gouges he was planning for my face. I swing my right fist out, slamming him in the jaw. He falls. I jump on top of him. I raise my fist for a possible return engagement with his nose, which is still spouting blood.

  I warn, “You tell me what this is about, or I’ll wipe your nose for you — right off your face.”

  My weight is making it hard for Jace to breathe. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay, I’ll talk. We were gonna let you go.” He’s trying to smile. To win me over, like he always wins people over. “It’s just a, a trick on my old man. We pretend I’ve been kidnapped. He pays out some dough; we get a windfall.”

  I think of the fifties Jace brandished at me. When I’d hesitated about trading places with him, he’d produced yet more. There seemed to be no end of them.

  “You have enough dough,” I say in disbelief. “A fake kidnapping? What’re you doing something so stupid for?”

  “For fun,” Jace replies, surprised, as if he’s explaining to a none-too-bright little kid. “For something to do. And, to get back at Dad for hassling me all the time. For finding fault with me, 24/7.”

  I remember what Jace said earlier, about the security camera. Every time I have a shift, Dad checks on me. That’s the kind of controlling dude he is.

  Jace sees I’m thinking. He tries wriggling free.

  I grab a hank of his hair, forcing his head way back. “I’m not finished with you, buddy. I want answers. How were you going to do it?”

  His eyes water at the pain. “We already sent Dad a cellphone photo of me tied up. We texted him not to call the police, or I’d be killed. Next, we were gonna text Dad ransom instructions. He’d have to make a drop — a hundred grand, in cash — up the road, in an old cabin. After that, I’d rough myself up and go home. Pretend I’d escaped the kidnappers.”

  In the light from the open driver’s door, I notice a jagged gash on the right side of Jace’s temple. Looks like a glass cut. This must be the roughing up. I have to hand it to him. It looks pretty convincing.

  “And me?” I demand. “What was my role in all this?”

  Tears are spilling down Jace’s cheeks. He’s suffering too much to lie. “We were gonna leave you in the cabin, knocked unconscious. I’d claim you and another guy kidnapped me. You’d take the fall.”

  Rage rises, like bile, up through my chest and into my brain. I want so badly to punch the rest of Jace’s face in. But I know if I start punching him, I’ll keep going till he’s pulp.

  Jace pleads, “We’ll go for a different plan, Colin. We’ll cut you in. It’ll be a good deal for you. Ray’s waiting for us, up the road, at the cabin. You come with me, as a partner, not a prisoner. I promise, Colin. I’ll square it with Ray. Please.”

  He’s dripping tears like a wet mop. Disgusted, I let him go. The cops can deal with him.

  …

  I wrench the car keys from Jace. He’s too busy holding on to his head and moaning to notice or care.

  I stagger over to the trunk. Removing the shovel, I start filling the pothole in with dirt. It’s easy, because it rained last night and the dirt is damp. Then I toss the shovel back in the trunk, where it clatters against the skis. Two pairs of them, I notice in the trunk’s dim light. One pair is hot-pink, with the initials R.M.

  Rachel Manetas.

  Rachel and Jake. Just another wholesome couple enjoying the outdoors together.

  I slam the lid shut and head to the driver’s door.

  Jace tries to get up, but he’s in too much pain. He sways and falls back.

  He snivels, “Wait, don’t leave me here. Hey, Colin, c’mon. I meant it about cutting you in on the deal.”

  I swing into the driver’s seat and shut the door. I call back, “Forget it, buddy. Any deal of yours is a raw deal for me.”

  Starting the engine, I press the accelerator down slowly. The car eases forward.

  I’ve caught a break. Dawn is starting. Grey is trickling over Grouse Mountain. I can see to avoid any more mammoth potholes.

  As I drive off, I see Jace’s astonished face in the rear lights. He can’t believe I passed on his deal. He can’t believe things aren’t turning out the way he, Jace Turpin, wants them to. His jaw is hanging down in a slack, stunned O.

  …

  I slam my palm against the wheel, in anger at Jace for playing me, in frustration at myself for going along.

  And, in disappointment about school. From now till grad day I’ll be the outsider who reported Jace to the cops. I know how it works. It doesn’t matter that Jace is one-hundred-proof guilty of assault. Of attempted fraud against his own dad. It won’t make any difference. I’ll be the bad guy for squealing on him. I’ll be on my own, as always.

  Well, I’m used to that. I can live with it.

  I’m sure Jace expects me to forget the whole thing. Even now his winning smile spreads from one edge of my brain to the other in widescreen persuasion. C’mon, Colin. Help me out. I’ll help you out.

  I slam my palm against the wheel again. “Yeah,” I say out loud. “And then, one day, you’ll torpedo some other schmuck with one of your con games.”

  Having made the decision, I calm down. I plan my moves. First, I’ll get my own car back from the Turpin’s lot. I’ll go home and soak my head in an extra long, extra hot shower. Then, I’ll go to the cops.

  Wait. The lessons of a thousand CSIs come back to me. Better to visit the cops right off. Let them see my head wound just as it is. Let them take fingerprints off me. I’m wearing Jace’s prints all over.

  The fir trees are thinning. The old road curves round to join a dead-end neighbourhood street. The car gives one parting lurch, and then we’re on pavement.

  …

  It’ll be long time before I get to muscle a highway again in a GT. I might as well enjoy the ride back to Turpin’s. I cruise the Mustang along, enjoying its smoothness. At a feather touch, it purrs into high speed, where the old Volvo would clank and resist.

  By now the dawn is spilling pink and orange over the mountainside. Pulling over to the shoulder, I let the top down. I sit for a while. On my injured head, the cool air is sweet, healing.

  I don’t know how many minutes I stay there. But after a while a car zooms past me, about double the speed limit.

  It breaks the spell. I start the motor again. I take the road slowly this time. I’ll have to face the real world soon enough.

  …

  I pull up to the Turpin’s lot, but I can’t drive into it. Strung from posts, yellow police tape cordons off the lot. Cop cars, their top lights glowing and spinning, surround the restaurant. With the lights and the Turpin’s neon sign, the lot is soaked in red light.

  I see plainclothes detectives milling around inside the restaurant. Outside, uniformed cops are standing guard along the tape.

  I think: Somebody saw me being assaulted and kidnapped. Maybe it was the truck driver. Yeah, that could be it. Realizing he was too sick to drive, the guy stopped across the road. He reported what he saw, and now the cops are looking for clues.

  Well, I’m about to cut down on their workload.

  I park the Mustang by the sidewalk, past a bus-stopping area. I start toward the nearest cop, who’s standing, arms folded and grim-faced, by the yellow tape.

  Before I get to the cop, a freckle-faced girl, kind of plain, walks up to him from inside the taped-off area. She looks pale, scared. So scared that she forgot to remove her Turpin’s apron and cap before leaving.

  She’s the six a.m. relief, I realize.

  I can’t hear what the girl says, but the cop nods at her. She walks out of the lot. She heads down the sidewalk, towards me.

  Closer, I notice how her freckles stand out like sand particles against her pale skin. I see that she has large, hazel eyes that make her not so plain, after all.

  I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to be scared. That the kidnapping she heard about is over.

  I stop, unsure whether to say anything. I should go straight over to the police.

  Through tear-blurred eyes, the girl sees me. “Oh my God … Jace?”

  Wiping the back of her hand over her wet eyes, she stares hard at me. “I’m, I’m sorry,” she gulps. “Just for a second there, I thought I’d — sorry, it’s stupid. I thought you were a ghost.”

  The word ghost drains the air out of my chest. Grabbing her wrist, I croak, “What do you mean?”

  The girl bites her lower lip to steady it. “S-somebody shot Jace, up an old logging road on Grouse Mountain. Jace phoned for help, but by the time they got there, it was too late. He was dead.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “No,” I protest. A nightmare is spreading around me, a black hole waiting to suck me in. “No. I just left Jace up there. He’s … ”

  The girl’s hazel eyes gape, frightened. She glances back at the cop.

  “Don’t say anything,” I say. I drag her along the sidewalk, past a tall fir tree. Its wide,

  needle-thick base is like a skirt, shielding us.

  She’s too surprised to resist. But that won’t last long. Already she’s pulled free. “You’re the one they’re looking for. I overheard them. You’re Colin Wirt.”

  A cop car drives past. The cop at the wheel glances at us.

  The girl heaves a big breath, preparing for a mega scream.

  I reach for the girl, pull her tight against me. I press my mouth against her ear. “Don’t give me away,” I whisper. “Please. I didn’t know Jace was dead. His murder is the worst thing that could happen to me.”

  I close my eyes, vainly trying to block the images my brain is throwing back at me. My tussle with Jace. My prints on him. Probably my blood. All the CSI-type stuff I thought would back my story up — it’s going to condemn me. The police will think I killed Jace.

  The cop turns away. I spot a slight grin. She thinks we’re boyfriend-girlfriend, lovin’ it up. She swings her car into the Turpin’s lot.

  I release the girl. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I had no right to grab you like that. I’m pretty messed up.”

 

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