They were wrong.
Bran, instead of lying down and babbling like a baby, had leaped up and headed for the open street, screaming and yelling. It was rush hour and odds were good he’d have been hit within a few seconds of jumping into the middle of Queen Street.
Dan had tackled him, tossing Bran to the ground and wrestling him into submission before dragging Bran back to the camp. Jane had helped the delirious reporter and kept him safe as he worked through six hours of hallucinations and fever, finally erupting in what Bran recalled as the longest session of projectile vomiting he’d ever suffered through.
It was cliché to say that he owed the kids his life but it was the truth.
He’d put a sanitized version in the article, leaving out the near-suicide and toning it down to a quiet night of smoking dope and bonding with the two kids.
The truth was the pair had saved his life and he’d never forgotten the debt he owed to them.
He’d also never gotten the chance to pay them back.
Stacy continued. “I don’t know Mr. Hanover as well as you do but I don’t think I’m reaching to say he might be trying to relive the situation through searching for these two and possibly in his dealings with this other woman.”
I felt like I’d been smacked with a two-by-four. “What?”
Stacy tapped the photographs. “From what I understand, Mr. Hanover’s biggest regret is not being able to get those two out of danger, the ones from his article. Now he has two new kids to worry about, two young people that could meet the same fate.” She turned the photos around to face me. “He wants to save them and by proxy feel that he’s redeemed himself, at least in his own mind. Add in the reappearance of one member of the original group and he has a chance to help this survivor as well. He can finally finish up his personal business with his past by dealing with this in the present.” She smiled. “I’m not a psychologist, before you ask. But I see this sort of thing a lot and after a while you spot the signs.” Her gaze went to the closed door. “We have people cycle through here all the time wanting to help and they slip into that tar pit of emotions—get all caught up in wanting to ‘save’ people who may not want to be saved in the way someone’s thinking.” Her fingers ran over the pile of file folders stacked to her right. “You may think you know what’s best for a person but you have to let them decide in the end. You can’t force them into a new life. They have to want to change. And sometimes you have to watch them walk back into the fire and let them go.”
“Bran’s not that type of guy,” I replied, even though my mind was already processing the concept. “He wouldn’t get hung up like that.”
Stacy nodded. “I stand corrected, then. Let me run these by the staff and I’ll let you get back out on the street.” She stood up and walked out, taking the photographs.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. Not only was I dealing with a Felis family feud, I might be losing my mate to some psychological crisis.
First things first—find these damned kids and figure out what to do with them.
Then I’d deal with Angie Degas.
Stacy came back in. “I’ve showed them around to the staff. No hits but I told them to call me if they see them.”
I stood up. “Do you still have my business card?”
She chuckled. “You bet. Never hurts to have friends in strange places.”
“Thank you.” I hesitated, trying to find the right phrasing. “About what you said before—is there something I should do or shouldn’t do, in your opinion?”
Stacy shook her head. “I can’t say. It’s his life, his problem. We know about it because he wrote about it and his story was so heartfelt, so honest which is why it became so famous.” She tapped her chest, over her heart. “It hit all of us here, tugged on the right nerves to bring us into that world and let us know their struggles. But he paid a price for it, letting himself get too involved, and he couldn’t pull back.”
“Too much into the story.”
“Exactly. And no matter what you or I say or do we’re still on the outside looking in. He’s got to come to terms with his choices and their choices, both the living and the dead.” She straightened a stack of file folders. “If you need to talk give me a call.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t think of what else to say so I headed for the door.
The morning commute was starting to ebb, the majority of employees already barricaded behind their glass walls. The streets were emptying out slowly, returning control to the tourists who gawked at the Eaton Centre and cheered at the Hockey Hall of Fame before dumping obscene amounts of money for mediocre food to say they’d eaten at this famous restaurant, paying for the sponsor’s name when they’d get just as good food from the hot dog carts.
The kids were out bright and early hustling for their brekka—the squeegee troop perched at almost every major intersection, ready to run out at a red light and clean windshields for spare change. Every once in a while the cops would come around, warn them to be careful and not block traffic. The kids would do their bobblehead impression and allow the police to feel listened to, holding back until the uniforms went out of sight before dodging cars again. The best the police could issue a ticket for impeding traffic but it’d be a waste of time between getting a real name from the offenders and believing the ticket would actually get paid. Their time was better spent hunting down real criminals who were doing more than just holding up the occasional car from shooting through the intersection.
It was dangerous work though. An angry commuter, a frightened tourist and a kid could find him or herself flying into traffic and, at the least, nursing bumps and bruises. Every few months there’d be an article in the paper about an accidental death when a kid didn’t move fast enough and bounced the wrong way.
They worked for their money, no doubt about that.
I watched one group at a street corner working their magic, the young women dashing out into traffic while their male counterparts kept close to the sidewalks, unable to get out of the way in time if the light changed before the work was done. It didn’t hurt that the two girls wore ripped wet T-shirts that stuck to their slender forms, giving drivers a good reason to slow down and get caught by the red light.
They slapped sloppy wet rags on windshields and followed up with a fast wipe, the chipped rubber leaving more water on the glass than it removed. It was still enough to earn them a handful of change, tossed into a pocket or into a plastic bottle strapped to their belts. The light went to green and they sprinted for the curb to catch their breath and ready for the next red.
They shrugged when I showed them the pictures, watching me warily when I offered cash for any tips and ran into traffic as soon as they could to escape me. Rebuffed I headed back onto Yonge Street to see if the main artery could cough up anything.
The older man I’d given money to yesterday was back on his stoop, coffee cup at the ready. I gave him a wan smile and nod as I passed him and twisted down one side street where the bike messengers congregated between runs. Maybe the runners could give me something.
I resisted heading for the Spot. If I found Bran there I’d be furious—and if I didn’t find him there I’d find Angie and that would lead to a whole lot of teeth-gnashing.
To start.
Mike’s Munchies was a small hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop catering almost exclusively to couriers who needed fast, portable food and didn’t care if it looked pretty or not. The fat buns wrapped in Mike’s signature wax paper were a familiar sight on the streets as the bikers hopped curbs with one hand and ate with the other, dodging cars in a frenzied rush to deliver papers and packages.