Julian Read Free

to incense.
    Delicious aromas wafted from noodle restaurants. Aidan’s stomach growled. He peered at the menu taped to the steam-covered window of a small diner. He checked his wallet, shook his head and moved on.
    He had had no plan in mind when he left the gallery.His note to Sayers said only that he would find his own way back home. She’d be surprised. Aidan had never been a problem student, but he’d catch a load of trouble for breaking the school’s field trip policy. He might get back home in time for supper, but it didn’t matter as long as he made the game that evening. If he had to, he would go straight to the arena. Henry would bring Aidan’s gear to the rink.
    He headed north, then turned left where the avenue split to encircle a complex of old buildings. He turned corners randomly and soon realized he was lost. Good. Content to wander through the snow, he passed through an old neighbourhood of houses standing shoulder to shoulder with tiny shops.
    After a while he found himself on a residential street flanked with maples, their branches black and wet against the sombre sky—a northern sky, not the brilliant blue upturned bowl of Van Gogh’s paintings. He was enjoying the time on his own—a rare thing for him, free from schoolwork, practice, games. The boredom of swampy locker rooms, the mindless banter and pranks. The endless bus rides to and from arenas that all looked the same. Aidan usually passed the time reading. His teammates had harassed him at first and jeered at him, but they lost interest after a while. Over the years he’d burrowed through lots of detective stories—by Hammett, James Lee Burke, Chandler, Parker, Bruen and more. He liked detective tales because, at the end, things were put back together. Order was restored. A few months ago he had discovered a historical action series about Captain Alatriste, and he had put away two of the series already.
    Thoughts of thrilling stories pulled the girl-thief to the front of his mind. It was one of the things about her that had attracted him as he watched her in the gallery earlier: she seemed adventurous. Fearless. Free.
    It had stopped snowing. Aidan was alone on the quiet street. Up ahead he noticed a school, in front of it a break in the files of parked cars lining both sides of the road, leaving a safe pickup and drop-off area. A little kid emerged from the building, skipped down the steps and bustled along in Aidan’s direction on the opposite side of the street. In addition to his backpack he was toting some kind of music case. A clarinet, maybe, or a flute. The kid was Asian, small, maybe in grade five or six, probably rushing to his music lesson.
    Far behind the boy a compact SUV slipped out of the line of vehicles at the curb and drove slowly down the street. A cold, prickly sensation flowed up Aidan’s spine and into his arms and hands. He stood watching the scene unfold. The dark vehicle drew to a stop about thirty metres behind the kid. Two young men scrambled out and began to shadow the boy. The SUV pulled forward, the image of overhead branches sliding across the hood and up the windshield, and drove past the boy. Abruptly it nosed into the curb, the hood dipping sharply as it jerked to a stop, and two more men jumped out, leaving the rear doors open.
    Aidan realized immediately what was happening. It wasn’t hockey, but the principles were the same. The kid was boxed by the four men. The two followers quickened their pace. But the kid had already caught on. In one motion he dropped the instrument case, shrugged off his backpack and dashed across the road. He cut between twocars and pelted down the sidewalk directly toward Aidan. Calling out to each other, the four men took up the chase.
    Aidan felt a familiar jolt of adrenaline, his body’s instinctive call to action. The kid flashed by. Aidan walked toward the men casually, as if he had no idea what was happening. One had already outstripped his partners and thundered toward