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Chapter 1
"Hey Donaaalld!" It was Brad. He was the oldest and he was the ringleader. If he was calling, then he meant business, and that was bad. Donny quickened his pace. They weren't used to him running away. . . there was a slight chance he could get to school before they could catch him. He had to. . . the couldn't search his bag. He broke into a run. "What the-?" a scuffling broke out behind him, then the pounding feet of the MacRaes followed. A hand smacked into the middle of Donny's back and he flew forward. He felt his jeans rip, his skin tear, and blood begin to seep out of the wound. "Where ya think you're going, nerd-o?" Jimmy MacRae grabbed Donny's jacket and flipped him onto his back. Donny scrambled to get up. The MacRaes laughed. Brad grinned, "What's wrong, Donald? Ya got extra money today or somethin'?" He yanked Donny to his feet, and twisted his bag off his back.
"No!" Donny yelled. He tried to pull free, but Jimmy had too good a hold. "You can't--" he struggled, and Jimmy gave him a kick in the back of the knee, making his leg give out. Donny's glasses slipped off his face and the world became a blur. He heard his backpack zipper slide open. He heard Brad shuffle through the contents.
"Whoa, what've you got here, Donny-boy?" He heard Brad pull the mirror out of the bag, and he heard the others shift around to get a better look. Then Brad yelled, "What the--? It freaking burned me! What is this, nerd-o?" Donny held his breath.
"Give up," a voice whispered. Donny squeezed his eyes shut and waited.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Donald Calder woke with a start. His heart was racing. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath. He hadn't dreamt about that day with the MacRaes in almost fifteen years. Clear your mind, he told himself, as long as you don't think about the blood-- "Shit," he said out loud. He rolled off his bed, dragged himself to his small kitchen, and switched on the coffee pot. A large orange cat brushed up against his leg. "Hey Fatso," he said, leaning down to scratch the cat behind the ears, "you have bad dreams too?" Don picked up yesterday's paper and sat down at his table to read it. He stared at the words, but didn't take anything in. He looked at Fatso. "There was no mirror," he said, "it was just one of my games." For five years and thirteen thousand dollars of therapy, he had better believe that. But he didn't. "Shit," he said again, and stood up. He pushed in his chair, grabbed his jacket and coffee, and walked out the front door, not even bothering to lock it behind him.
A crisp november breeze was playing in the trees, and Don could just see his breath rising in puffs before it disappeared into the air. He walked at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. Most days he drove, but he needed to clear his mind, and the exercise never hurt-- he went to the gym daily, but it still never hurt. Don looked up at the sky. The clouds were moving quickly, as were the cars below them. The world was in a hurry this morning. Not good. He had never liked mornings when the world was in a hurry. It always seemed to mean a busy day ahead. He let out a sigh and took it in. Maybe it would keep his mind busy too.
Don turned up the drive of the a single-story brick building. The lights were on inside, but there was a sadly deserted look about the place. A sign on the doorway read:
Calder and Fox
Wellerton Investigatory Services
He turned the knob and a bell jangled warmly, contradicting the somewhat cold atmosphere of the large room in front of him. On one side sat two desks, watchful guard dogs of the closed two doors behind them. The left desk was overflowing with papers, the right meticulously clean. Pictures were tacked haphazardly across the taupe wall. The other side of the room consisted of two large leather armchairs, a matching leather couch, and a table holding four old magazines and an espresso machine. Don had always thought the espresso machine was too much. A hallway lead to the restrooms and the "back room" that was used for slacking when work was either too slow or too fast. "Anybody here?" he called out. The sound of a scraping chair answered him and a plump woman of about fifty appeared in the hallway with a smile on her face and a donut in her hand.
"Donny, your early! I picked up some donuts, would you like any?" Don smiled and shook his head,
"No thanks, Shirley. How are you this morning?" Don had known Shirley Miller since he was twenty-two and just out of Dartmouth. She had a good twenty years and fifty pounds on him. She also had the annoying habit of making a mess wherever she went, and somehow she still managed to be one of his favorite people.
"Pretty good, yourself?" Don considered this and decided that lies were always good.
"I'm great. What's on the schedule for today?" he asked her, though he already knew. Twelve o'clock, two o'clock, four o'clock.
"Well, Jenny's notes say you have a twelve o'clock with the Tronowskies and a four o'clock with Pete Reynolds. . . Your two o'clock canceled." Don nodded.
"Alright," he told her, "I'll take all my calls today. I'd like to talk to Jeremy whenever he gets in." Don gave her a slight nod and made his way to his office door, knocking several papers off the desk on the left on the way. He bent to pick them up, and Shirley bustled him out of the way.
"Oh go on, you big jerk. I was going to clean it up today anyway, you don't have to make any of your little statements."
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