some time to regulate my breathing, keeping myself slightly stooped over, hands on my thighs. "Ever try getting someone's attention with a simple 'Hey You'?" I asked the 46 of 163
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man, who I had come to think of Mr. Asshole Jerk in my head.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Quant, it's just that you were running away and I wanted to talk to you."
Hey! How'd he know my name? I swivelled my head to look up at him then straightened to my full height, flexing a muscle or two (just in case he needed convincing that, despite recent events, I was no pushover).
Wait a sec, I recognized this dude. It was Cameron Banyon, Moxie and Missy's younger brother. He was mid-twenties, blond hair long and scraggly-which was in vogue for people his age who weren't suit-wearers-and the skin on his face was pocked from too much scratching during a case of childhood measles. He gave off a friendlier vibe than he had back at his sister's house, but then again, he had just tried to sever my vocal chords.
"So talk," I said, massaging my throat where his arm had nearly guillotined me. "Because I am momentarily speechless."
"Moxie wasn't paranoid," Cameron said, sounding a bit out of breath himself. "And she wasn't going crazy like Missy made it sound. Missy, and my mom and dad, don't like to admit it. They don't want to believe it or can't believe it, I guess. But those things, Mr. Quant, the things she talked about, they were really happening."
I stopped rubbing my bruised throat and studied the man. "You know this for sure?"
He nodded and stared at me with some kind of hope in his eyes. Hope for what?
"Can you tell me what kinds of things were happening to Moxie?"
Cameron nodded and for the next couple minutes, on that dark Moose Jaw street, he laid before me a gruesome tale, all in a fast-paced, jittery manner as if he couldn't get it out of his mouth fast enough. "He was hounding her, Mr. Quant. He would call her over and over and over again, at all times of the day and night, and then always hang up. At work. At home. She'd change her number but he always found it out somehow. He'd leave her stuff, like...like...like one time she found a pile of dog turd in front of her apartment door, and her building didn't allow dogs so it couldn't have been an accident. He was always watching her. She could tell. She could just feel his eyes wherever she went.
"And one time, he must have called 9-1-1 and sent the cops over, saying that someone in the apartment was being strangled to death, as if...as if...as if that's what he really wanted to do to her. Moxie really loved her car-an old convertible-and he musta known it 'cause he would do things like spray-paint her headlights black or pound nails into the tires. She had nowhere else to park it except on the street. She'd report the damage to the police but there was nothing they could do. One morning, she found it with the driver's side window smashed and the car was filled with gross rotting garbage. She finally had to sell the car. She cried so hard about that. And sometimes, she'd find these notes, stuffed in her purse or a coat pocket or a drawer at work. She'd get bills in the mail for stuff she never bought. He was driving her mental. She couldn't take it anymore."
My ears did a little twitch. "Notes? Do you know what these notes said?"
Cameron nodded again. "The one she told me about, it said, 'Boo.'"
Hello Kitty. I had in my possession another note, the one I found in Tanya's desk, with the same chillingly solitary word written on it. What was happening here? Was this some bizarre coincidence? A cruel joke gone wrong? Or were the deaths of these two women-once a couple-somehow tied together by this boogeyman?
"Missy thinks Moxie told her everything, but she didn't, not after she realized Missy stopped believing 47 of 163
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her. I believed her,"
3/15/2011 10:56 PM
D: BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...
man, who I had come to think of Mr. Asshole Jerk in my head.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Quant, it's just that you were running away and I wanted to talk to you."
Hey! How'd he know my name? I swivelled my head to look up at him then straightened to my full height, flexing a muscle or two (just in case he needed convincing that, despite recent events, I was no pushover).
Wait a sec, I recognized this dude. It was Cameron Banyon, Moxie and Missy's younger brother. He was mid-twenties, blond hair long and scraggly-which was in vogue for people his age who weren't suit-wearers-and the skin on his face was pocked from too much scratching during a case of childhood measles. He gave off a friendlier vibe than he had back at his sister's house, but then again, he had just tried to sever my vocal chords.
"So talk," I said, massaging my throat where his arm had nearly guillotined me. "Because I am momentarily speechless."
"Moxie wasn't paranoid," Cameron said, sounding a bit out of breath himself. "And she wasn't going crazy like Missy made it sound. Missy, and my mom and dad, don't like to admit it. They don't want to believe it or can't believe it, I guess. But those things, Mr. Quant, the things she talked about, they were really happening."
I stopped rubbing my bruised throat and studied the man. "You know this for sure?"
He nodded and stared at me with some kind of hope in his eyes. Hope for what?
"Can you tell me what kinds of things were happening to Moxie?"
Cameron nodded and for the next couple minutes, on that dark Moose Jaw street, he laid before me a gruesome tale, all in a fast-paced, jittery manner as if he couldn't get it out of his mouth fast enough. "He was hounding her, Mr. Quant. He would call her over and over and over again, at all times of the day and night, and then always hang up. At work. At home. She'd change her number but he always found it out somehow. He'd leave her stuff, like...like...like one time she found a pile of dog turd in front of her apartment door, and her building didn't allow dogs so it couldn't have been an accident. He was always watching her. She could tell. She could just feel his eyes wherever she went.
"And one time, he must have called 9-1-1 and sent the cops over, saying that someone in the apartment was being strangled to death, as if...as if...as if that's what he really wanted to do to her. Moxie really loved her car-an old convertible-and he musta known it 'cause he would do things like spray-paint her headlights black or pound nails into the tires. She had nowhere else to park it except on the street. She'd report the damage to the police but there was nothing they could do. One morning, she found it with the driver's side window smashed and the car was filled with gross rotting garbage. She finally had to sell the car. She cried so hard about that. And sometimes, she'd find these notes, stuffed in her purse or a coat pocket or a drawer at work. She'd get bills in the mail for stuff she never bought. He was driving her mental. She couldn't take it anymore."
My ears did a little twitch. "Notes? Do you know what these notes said?"
Cameron nodded again. "The one she told me about, it said, 'Boo.'"
Hello Kitty. I had in my possession another note, the one I found in Tanya's desk, with the same chillingly solitary word written on it. What was happening here? Was this some bizarre coincidence? A cruel joke gone wrong? Or were the deaths of these two women-once a couple-somehow tied together by this boogeyman?
"Missy thinks Moxie told her everything, but she didn't, not after she realized Missy stopped believing 47 of 163
3/15/2011 10:56 PM
D: BOOKS/Anthony Bidulka - Russell Quant Mystery/Anthony B...
her. I believed her,"
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