Aloha, Candy Hearts (6 page)

So, like it or not, Ethan was in our lives. My life. And I, god help me, was drawn to him, like metal shavings to a magnet.

I don’t like being metal shavings.

My betrothed (that word just makes me want to spend a weekend in the English countryside playing cricket and sipping cordials with women in hoop skirts), Alex Canyon, however, was not in my life. Not in a day-to-day way, anyway. That, I was guessing, was the problem.

Alex is a security expert, hired by people or companies with issues and lots of money to deal with them. The problem was that those issues rarely occured anywhere near Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. We’d been doing the long-distance thing for more than two years, and for the most part, it had worked out fine. Deep down, I’m an introvert. I like my alone time. I like not DD6AA2AB8

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having to consider someone else’s taste when ordering pizza or watching a movie or selecting a bottle of wine. It’s nice. At least that’s what I told myself.

Unlike Ethan, Alex is an in-your-face kind of guy. He’s aggressive, powerfully built, Clark-Kent-handsome and super mascu-line, with a dry wit and global intellect. And did I mention smoul-deringly sexy?

I suppose being part-time lovers over a long enough period should be enough to tell two people if they are meant to be together. I love Alex, I do, and I know he loves me.

Conclusion: I was being an idiot.

It was time to start the car and get the hell home.

As I prepared to pull away from Ash House, I waited for a white Ford F-150 with a cab over the bed to pass by.

Hey. Wait a second.

A white Ford F-150 with a cab had passed by a minute or so earlier. And a couple of minutes before that, too. What was going on here?

Was someone else staking out the house of the man I had a crush on? That didn’t seem right.

I screeched out of my spot and made a sharp right off Elliott onto Wiggins Avenue. The Ford was not far ahead of me. I saw him make another right onto Temperance Street heading for Clarence Avenue. I did the same.

At Clarence, the white truck turned right. If I was a good boy and heading for home, I would turn left. I sat at the intersection and watched the progress of the suspicious vehicle.

He turned off Clarence back onto Elliott. What the hell? The driver was going in circles.

I, of course, had no way of knowing whether White Truck Guy was watching Ash House or one of the many other houses on the tree-lined suburban street. But something told me this was no father waiting to pick up his daughter from a babysitting job.

Wisely or not, I made up my mind.

I switched the direction of my turn signal and headed right onto Clarence then turned down Elliott. As soon as I did, the white truck, dawdling down the street, suddenly lurched forward and DD6AA2AB8

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sped off. The driver had caught sight of me and obviously did not want to be followed.

I sped up. So did the Ford. Once again he swung right onto Wiggins Avenue, then really floored it.

Oooeeee! A car chase! And I wasn’t even on a case. Oh well, the Mazda could use the exercise after sitting in an airport parking lot for a week. The dogs seemed happy enough to go along for the ride. So, off I went.

This time the driver kept going straight, heading south, as if his next stop was Antarctica. We were speeding through what was mostly a residential area with uncontrolled intersections. The driver of the Ford was making tracks like he had the uncontested right-of-way. I watched as pretty little streets with their benign yards and mature treescapes whizzed by at double the posted speed.

Given the time of night and part of town, the sidewalks were barren. For that I was glad.

Despite the empty streets, this was still unsafe. I knew I had to let the Ford go. As far as I knew, the guy behind the wheel of the white truck had done nothing wrong, except speed. But the fact that he was running away from me told me he’d probably been up to no good. How did he know I wasn’t after him to tell him he had a flat tire, or to ask for directions?

I began to slow down. I was pretty sure there were no lights at the upcoming busy intersection with 8th Street. The chase was over. We’d both have to stop there.

Except he didn’t.

I watched as the white devil shot across 8th, barely missing being broadsided by a Camaro going one way and a Kia heading the other. I was not so cavalier with my life. The car chase was over—for me.

I screeched to a halt and watched as the truck got away.

I swore a little, but I should have known better. Car chases never turn out well. Either you end up like I did today, with nothing to show for it, or somebody gets run off a cliff and explodes in a ball of fire à la Charlie’s Angels or The Rockford Files. Neither a very appealing result.

Feeling a bit sulky, I made my way back to Clarence Avenue DD6AA2AB8

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and headed south for home. This had not been my finest hour. It was time for me to skulk off with my tail between my legs before I did something else stupid.

I squinted and swore a little when a pair of headlights, set on bright, pulled up behind me, getting closer by the second. I checked the rear-view mirror.

Holy Mother of Moby Dick.

It was the same white truck.

I immediately checked for a licence number and swore again when I remembered that Saskatchewan no longer required front licence plates. So instead of a number I could trace to an owner, the plate on the front bumper of my mouse-turned-cat bore a cartoon.

It looked like some kind of boat next to something that I took to be a beehive. Made no sense to me, but I had better things to figure out, like what this guy was up to.

A tap on my rear bumper gave me my first clue.

Did this guy really intend to ram me? In the middle of a city street?

True, it had been a little presumptuous of me to follow him just because I saw him circle a street once or twice. I’d overreacted. I knew this and I was sorry. But metal kissing my bumper seemed a little on the excessive side of things.

I stepped up my speed, just to see what he would do.

He followed. Only inches from my rear, the big white mass was indisputably threatening. This guy was serious.

What to do? Home was out of the question. No nearby police station.

We were approaching a four-way stop. I debated zooming through. Maybe a cop would come after us. Where was a hidden spot check when you really needed one?

I looked left. Empty. I looked right. Oh crapola. Some guy was out for a late night bike ride. I wouldn’t hit him, but I couldn’t guarantee that GI Jackass behind me would be so careful. I didn’t want to put anyone else’s life in jeopardy. I slammed on the brake and came to an abrupt stop.

The white truck zoomed up behind me and I felt another tap.

The asshole revved his engine and slowly began pushing me into DD6AA2AB8

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the intersection. Thankfully, this was Saskatoon, late at night, on a suburban street. But still!

This guy was really beginning to piss me off.

The cyclist made it safely through the intersection. It was my turn to go. I hit the pedal and raced through. The truck came with me. Hey! This was a four-way stop! Bugger wasn’t even going to wait his turn. Now that really burned me.

I’d had enough. This idiot was cruising for a confrontation. I’d just have to give it to him. I’d started this stupid game. I knew that had been stupid. So the first thing I’d do—through clenched teeth—would be to apologize. If that did nothing, all bets were off.

What he was doing was dangerous. I had pooches in the car. I didn’t want Barbra, Brutus, the Mazda, or me getting hurt over something so ludicrous. At least with a face-to-face, the odds went down to only me potentially getting hurt. (Depending how big the other guy was.) I was hoping, however, that we could deal with this in a more civilized way.

As we progressed southwards, I scoured the street for potential battlegrounds. And then, almost running out of Clarence Avenue, I found the perfect spot: the parking lot of St. Martin’s United Church.

I cranked the wheel and made a left into the empty lot. I parked with my nose pointing toward the slat fence that separated the church grounds from its nearest neighbour. The white truck followed me in.

I told Barbra and Brutus to wait for me in the car, and to call 9-1-1 if I wasn’t back in ten minutes.

Shifting about to open the driver ’s side door, I looked out.

What I saw took my breath away. The front end of the white truck was rushing right for me. I shrieked—I’m not proud of that—and drew back in shock and surprise. I cringed as I listened to the sickly crunch of the truck’s bumper making contact with the Mazda’s door, effectively blocking my exit unless I wanted to crawl over the dogs to the other side.

Fortunately, he stopped just short of a full-on bash. The bright lights of the other vehicle filled the inside of the Mazda with enough wattage to make me believe this was some kind of alien DD6AA2AB8

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abduction. I could barely hear my own heavy breathing over the powerful rumble of the big truck’s cruel engine.

Fear quickly turned to anger. “What the hell?” I bellowed, shielding my eyes.

Barbra and Brutus seconded my outrage with one annoyed bark each.

Then came another, unexpected, noise.

My cellphone.

Talk about bad timing for a call.

Then again, maybe it was excellent timing. I obviously needed help.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the phone, and answered,

“It’s Russell.”

“When I pull back, I want you to drop it out of your window to the ground. Then I’ll let you leave,” a hushed, whispering voice—male? female? I couldn’t quite tell—instructed me. “Or else I’ll ram you. And your little dogs too!” (Okay, I made up that last part about the dogs.)

“What?” I screamed into the phone. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

“I know you have it. Now drop it out the window. Or else.”

What was going on? Obviously this had nothing to do with the trucker being mad that I’d unnecessarily tailed him. This guy thought I had something he wanted. Trouble was, I didn’t.

“You have to believe me, I don’t have what you’re looking for.

You’ve got the wrong guy here.”

Once before, a couple of years ago, I’d caught the attention of a bad guy outside of Ash House. What was with that place? The sooner they moved to the new location the better, as far as I was concerned. That time, I’d initially thought the bad guy had something to do with Ethan. I was wrong. But what about this time?

All I’d been doing was stalking Ethan, minding my own business. Now this guy comes after me? Unless he was a superaggres-sive Neighbourhood Watch member, he was after the wrong man.

“My name is Russell,” I shouted into the phone. “And I’m telling you, you have the wrong guy.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Quant,” came the weird sounding DD6AA2AB8

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voice.

Oh, jeez. How did he know my last name? Jiminy jumping beans, it was me he was after. But why?

“I don’t have what you’re looking for,” I told him again.

The engine made a menacing sound, indicating rising rpm’s. I felt a shudder as the truck inched into us. Shit, shit, shit! He didn’t believe me.

“Wait!” I yelled.

I looked over at the dogs. They were admirably controlled, given the circumstances, but I could tell they were growing increasingly antsy. They could sense something was not right. If they decided I was being threatened, there’d be hell to pay. They’d start jumping about, barking and growling. Not only would that be distracting, there simply isn’t room for pandemonium in an RX-7 convertible. I knew I couldn’t deal with them and this tense situation at the same time. With as calm a voice as I could muster, I whispered sweet nothings to them. It seemed to work. For now.

“Are you going to do as I say? Or do I ram you?” the voice wanted to know.

Man? Woman? I was still unsure, but the choice of vehicle was making me lean toward man. An ugly one with a thick neck, bit-ten down fingernails, hairy back, and a low forehead.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I said, my voice steady for the dogs’ sakes.

“But I need to get it first. I’m going to hang up now. Call me back in a minute.”

I heard the caller begin to protest, but I hung up anyway. I quickly searched the cellphone’s directory and hit a speed-dial number.

With each ring I pleaded for an answer. I knew it was late, and Dane and Jim would be asleep, but they were my only hope for immediate help.

“Yeah,” came a groggy voice.

“Dane? It’s Russell.”

“Wha…?”

“Never mind. I’m parked in the parking lot between your house and the church. There’s a white truck about to ram into me.

I need you to get eggs and tomatoes and whatever else you have DD6AA2AB8

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in your fridge and start throwing them over your fence at the truck. Do not come into the parking lot. I repeat, do not come into the parking lot. This guy is dangerous.”

I hung up and hoped for the best. As soon as I did, the phone began to jangle. I waited a beat, then answered. “Yeah?”

“Don’t hang up on me!” the voice warned.

I already did, you idiot. But I didn’t say it out loud. Instead, I said, “Sorry, but I can’t talk to you and get…it… at the same time.

It’s in my bag in the back seat.”