chapters 11 and 12

Tom and Michael go trespassing

The Book of Answers was nominated for an Award of Excellence by Crime Writers of Canada. I post two new chapters each week. I invite your comments, and encourage you to recommend reluctant sleuth to others.

With each installment I post, more and more people subscribe. It’s exciting! I’ve also had more sign on as paid subscribers. Their investment will help cover the costs of formatting The Book of Answers as an e-book. I’ve also begun work on an audio version.

11

“You find anything interesting in Doug’s journal?”

Michael lowered his bulk into the passenger seat of my Suzuki Swift. There were creaks of protest as my little car rocked on its 10-year-old suspension.

“I read some stuff he wrote about me when I first came to Saint Mungo’s. It brought up memories. I also have a better understanding of why Kat and Virgil are both so... broken.”

“Lot of that going around,” Michael noted.

I was parked in front of the Saint Mungo’s manse. The church-owned residence was a three-bedroom bungalow on yet another stretch being overtaken by developers. Its cheerful yellow wood siding looked dated amid the dark brick and smooth stucco of the starter mansions.

“After their mother died, their grandmother, Attie’s sister Lila, washed her hands of them. She made a deal with Attie to take over their care, in exchange for that big house in East Oakville.”

“Anything more in there about Stephen Peretz, the pastor who gave Doug the journal?”

“I just read something about his wife leaving town after he disappeared. Oh...  is that who…”

“Scene of crime techs found his wallet in a water-tight bag floating in the coal chute.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of him right away. There was talk their marriage was in trouble and she’d hooked up with someone else. He was at Saint Mungo’s before Paul Bennett. Paul was my supervisor.”

“When they ran his driver’s license the system said it was the last one issued.”

“When Paul came to Saint Mungo’s he had to do a lot of mopping up. Stephen Peretz disappeared over night. No one seemed to know where he went. I wouldn’t have thought to look behind a basement wall.”

“That happen often in your line of work?”

“I really hope not.”

“How about a minister disappearing over night?”

“I never heard anything like it. From what Paul said the congregation was more relieved than worried. There’d been screaming matches that year that almost split the church over the issue of gay ordination. They just wanted things to settle down.”

“Sounds like a mess.”

“It was not an easy time to be a minister.”

“So Tom when’s the easy time?”

“I appreciate your pushing back with Attie at the meeting, but you don’t have to...”

“You know I’ve got your back, always. There’s something sour in Attie and she takes it out on you,” Michael shook his head.  “Even while we’re dealing with a dead body and searching for the senior pastor.”

“It comes with the territory. I know you took a lot of crap from people who don’t like cops.”

“Yeah, but I could arrest them,” Michael laughed, “or shoot them.”

We climbed out of the car. Despite the wintry air neither of us bothered with hat or gloves. Ice and snow crunched as we moved towards the house.

A lofty maple dominated the manse’s front yard even stripped as it was of leaves. Bare branches left thin shadows on the snowy lawn as well my little salt-stained car and the steel-grey Ford Taurus parked a car length behind it. It looked like one of the unmarked cars that filled the church parking lot these days.

I looked to Michael, and asked, “You still drive a cruiser?”

“I attended at way too many accident scenes to drive a little tin box like yours.”

“I like my car,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Carrie said it kept her humble and made her drive careful.”

Michael shifted gears. “Someone just cleared this driveway. Their snow-blower needs work. Look here. It’s leaking oil.”

 “Maybe a neighbour?”

Michael gestured towards the street. “The neighbours did their driveways earlier. You can see where the wind has softened the edges. Let’s look inside.”

Not for the first time, I thought Michael must have been a great detective.

“You make it all seem so… elementary.”

“Years of practice partner. Years of practice.”

The inlaid brick path from the driveway to the house had also been freshly cleared. Naked branches of the tall maple were reflected in the bay windows on either side of the front entry. Three days of the Globe and Mail lay on the doorstep, sheathed in clear blue plastic, and dusted with snow.

I knocked on the door.

“Nice suit, Michael.” I’d got used to seeing him in jeans and T-shirts from his restaurant.

“It’s always good to dress up when you plan to trespass in a good neighbourhood.”

“Is it still trespassing when you have this?” I waved a key chain, and said, “Betty left it for me, with another note reminding me we agreed to this.”

“It’s trespassing unless the tenant has consented, which Reverend Ed hasn’t. Let’s just do the walk-through, clear the rooms, so we can tell Betty there was nothing to see.”

The front foyer was as I remembered. An open space that used to serve as a buffer between the domestic busy-ness of the kitchen on the right and the reserved quiet of the living room on the left. Paul Bennett and his mother Mavis called it their parlour.

My eyes were drawn to the gas fireplace on the far left outside wall, framed on both sides by built-in shelves crafted of dark oak.

None of Paul’s books or his mother’s remained. A massive flat screen television now hung above the mantle. The shelves held the requisite black boxes for sound and picture and orderly rows of DVD movies and music CDs.

A wall once graced by what Paul called “a few small, but quite good paintings” was now home to an over-sized framed poster of the black steel of the Eiffel tower, shot looking up from the ground. On either side, smaller frames held tourist shop prints of the Bronte Harbour lighthouse.

Michael said, “Not much here.”

I nodded. “Paul and his mother had cozy armchairs set in front of the fireplace. There’s no dining room so they put their big table right about here, handy to the kitchen.”

The old kitchen had been gutted and re-done. It was fitted with glossy black glass-front cabinets, most of which were empty, and ultra-modern stainless-steel appliances. A stark white breakfast table stood tall near the side door. Matching stools were pushed under it.

Michael opened one side of the massive refrigerator. The glass shelves were pristine.

He asked, “Whose fridge stays this clean?’

Michael swept an arm around like a show-room model. “It’s like a page from an IKEA catalogue. Doesn’t look like it gets used.”

 “I think Ed eats out a lot.” I said. “When Paul and his mother lived here we’d sit for hours after supper. I’d ramble on and on, and he’d listen me into making sense.”

“Useful talent,” Michael said, grinning.

Michael stepped back into the living room, tilting his head to scan titles on the shelves of DVD cases.

“Your colleague favours the works of Jim Carrey. The Mask. The Truman Show. Bruce Almighty. Not a fan myself. He always comes across as frantic and trying way too hard.”

I nodded. “Ed’s a bit that way himself.  That’s very insightful, detective.”

“Paul on the other hand, sounds like my first training officer. A real mentor. Taught me more than how to talk to the citizens and write reports.”

I studied the polished brass of the gas fireplace. In Paul’s time it burned wood. I used to imagine it was the coal grate in a tutor’s rooms in a college at Cambridge.

One Sunday evening twenty years ago, we’d sat heavily in the armchairs near the fire, allowing the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding to settle. I asked Paul how long he’d stay at Saint Mungo’s.

Paul gestured towards the kitchen, and I followed the gaze of his clear blue eyes to the sight of his mother, apron over her Sunday dress, washing up at the kitchen sink. She was already in her early eighties.

“We’ve lived so many places. This has become home. She has her bridge ladies, our Blue Jays seasons tickets, and just a short walk for the shopping. She says she plans to die here.”

Paul’s calm acceptance of his mother’s mortality had unsettled my younger self.

“And you, Tom? I’ve wondered if you’ve any new thoughts about your own future…”

“Carrie and I’ve been seeing a lot of each other,” I admitted.

Paul leaned forward to shift a log with the fireplace poker. Sparks went up the flue, and the dormant fire erupted with bright new flames.

“Something you weren’t anticipating during this internship year.”

It was easier to watch the fire than meet his eyes. At seminary we’d read case studies about the damage caused when ministers crossed that line with parishioners.

“I thought I’d put that part of life on hold. And now I think I need to be careful.”

Paul said, “A lot of our colleagues lead lonely lives despite the many social opportunities and obligations. If you are blessed to find someone with whom you can build something real and life-giving, I encourage you to explore it, rejoice in it.”

“It’s comfortable with Carrie. We talk a lot.”

“That’s good. Have you shared your ethical qualms?”

“A little, after someone from the choir saw us out for a walk, I didn’t want to spook her. It feels early to get into the steps they taught us in the professional boundaries seminar.”

“As in advising your parishioner they have to look to someone else as their pastor, if you become romantically involved.” Paul chuckled.  “I don’t mean to make light of your concern, but I was just imagining being on the receiving end.”

“It’s a lot. I didn’t want her to think I was presuming…”

“Tom, you’re a good lad, and yes, it might feel a little cart before the horse. I think you can sense if Carrie is truly attracted to you, and not some complicated projection. My own instinct is she’s not likely looking to you to fill the God-space in her life. At least not beyond what we always seek in a relationship with another human.”

“I’m really not sure where it’s going with her.”

Paul nodded. “If you told me you were sure, I’d offer different counsel.”

“So you think it’s okay for us to see each other?”

Paul’s blue eyes sparkled. “I’m delighted for you both.”

“But what about pastors not dating parishioners?”

“It’s generally a good rule of thumb. But Tom, you are a student minister, and not exactly the pastor. You carry some of the burden and blessings of the role but not in the same way as if you were here in solo ministry. Carrie’s been accepted as part of the family, but she is not actually a member of the congregation.  And you’ll both leave Saint Mungo’s within the year.”

“That’s true. I’ll be back at school, and Carrie will be graduating, looking for a nursing job, probably in the Maritimes, where she grew up.”

“Ah, so you have been looking to the future...”

Michael interrupted my thoughts. “Ready to check the house?”

“I am,” I said, staring at the dark oak mantle. “I wonder if Ed knows about this.”

“What?”

“This wasn’t always a manse. Paul and his mother bought it when they came to Oakville. He retired when she died, and he gifted the house to Saint Mungo’s.”

“I’d never heard that.”

“Mavis was a fascinating woman. And very private.”

I pointed to the fireplace and surrounding cabinetry.

“This was all custom work. Mavis had them build in what she called her hidey-hole. She popped it open once to show me a photo of Paul as a child, looking very much like Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

Michael said, “I think I’d like to see that.”

“The picture of Paul in short pants, or the hidey-hole?”

Michael laughed. “Yes, to both.”

I pressed under the mantle as Mavis had shown me. A mechanical click. I grinned like I’d solved a Rubik’s Cube. A section of the dark oak opened to reveal the secret drawer.

My joy vanished when I saw the contents. A letter-size envelope stuffed with cash, a file folder labelled ‘Bell Tower’ and a ziploc bag full to bursting with grey-green pills.

“If that’s what I think,” Michael said, “we can’t leave that bag here. It’s a controlled substance. I have to turn it in. The rest is suspicious, just by circumstance.”

I said, “How will you explain our being here?”

“I’ll sort that later. Let’s finish this up.” Michael pointed. “I’ll head upstairs.”

He saved me from having to poke around in my colleague’s bedroom.

“I’ll take the basement,” I said.

“This house is a back-split,” Michael said. “There’ll be a crawl space below us, running the full width of the house.”

I nodded agreement. “Mavis used it for storage. How did you know?”

“I was undercover in a real estate firm for 20 months.”

 “I didn’t know you were undercover,”

“That’s kind of how undercover works.”

“Was that here in Oakville?”

“No, but not far from here. When this house was built…  about 60 years ago I’d say, builders would dig you a full basement for an extra five hundred bucks. That used to be a lot of money and most new home-owners didn’t see the need.”

I thought of the enormous houses taking over this block.

“They had different ideas about what was enough.”

“You see anything else weird, give me shout,” Michael instructed. “Don’t touch it.”

I gave only a cursory glance to the family room. I remembered it as the space where Mavis hosted three tables of bridge ladies once a month. It was empty except for a futon couch below the rear basement window.

The downstairs bathroom had the same unused feeling as the showroom kitchen above.

Ed was divorced and never mentioned his ex-wife. Did they have children? I knew so little about a man I’d worked with for over two years.

Michael called out, “Doing okay down there?”

“I’m good. Heading to the crawl space.”

An over-flowing hamper in the laundry room was the first sign of human habitation. A squat gas furnace filled the corner nearest the crawl space. The blower cycled on, causing the duct work to vibrate.

I remembered going on hands and knees to get under the ducts, to pull out card tables and folding chairs for Mavis. My knees were 20 years younger then.

A faint red light pulsed from deep in the crawl space.

I called up to Michael, “Going in to check something.”

I couldn’t find a light switch, so I struggled in the dark, scraping the knees of my suit pants on rough concrete. The intermittent red glow gave me something to head toward.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom, and I made out the shape of a power bar dangling from an outlet mounted on a floor joist. The light I’d followed came from the illumined switch. The power bar swung toward me, smacking the bridge of my nose, as the whole house shook.

A loud thump knocked the breath out of me and popped my ears. A strong wind knocked me down. I felt heat coming at me.

I wanted out. The only choice was back the way I’d come. I aimed toward the laundry room and pushed into waves of heat.  Foul smoke engulfed me. The temperature rose as I crawled on hands and knees.

Fear fueled my efforts to move faster and I forgot the low hanging duct work. Something jagged and evil clawed at the top of my head.

I gasped at the sharp and sudden pain until a numbing shock set in. I felt blood pump out of the gash in my scalp and drip down my forehead. I wiped warm stickiness away from my eyes. This motion pushed my head back and I knocked my skull against a floor joist.

“Shit! Ow!” It registered that I’d been deafened by the blast caused the heat and smoke.

I called out, “Michael! You okay?”

Thumping over my head told me Michael or someone else was moving around upstairs.

I crawled further and emerged from under the duct work. Oily smoke burned my eyes and nasal passages but in the laundry room I could at least rise from all fours. Ragged wool threads stuck to wet flesh at both my knees. The pant legs and my skin had been scraped raw.

I coughed hard, felt the sting deep in my lungs, and only then had the sense to not breathe in the fumes. I knocked over the laundry bin as I groped for a towel to cover my face.  Smoke blinded me. My eyes teared, my ears rang, and my lungs demanded fresh air. I felt along the wall for the way out. I wrapped the towel over the knob, pulled the door open, and stepped into the hall.

Thick black clouds issued from the family room and billowed up the stairwell. Waves of intense heat pushed me forward as I stumbled up the stairs.

At the main floor landing I toweled blood and grimy tears from my stinging eyes. Lowering the towel, I made out Michael coming at me fast through the dark cloud, crouched low as if he was squaring off against a defensive line.

I tried calling out and took in more hot smoke. My throat and chest burned. My lungs forced out a searing cough. A wave of deep drowsiness washed over me.

Michael’s shoulder hit me hard in the belly, forcing out the remaining air as he hefted me in a fire-fighter’s carry. He pivoted towards the front door, and we were out of the smoke-engulfed house.

Wintry wind sucked the heat from my body. I fought to breathe. The world spun as I bounced on Michael’s hard muscled back.

Michael took us down the driveway and out to the street side of his grey Ford Taurus. He keyed his remote, pulled open a door and flopped me down on the back seat.

“Don’t try to get up, partner. Breathe slow and steady.”

I think that’s what he said while I gasped, and worried I might pass out.

Michael dropped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and cranked the heat.

“I need to call this in.”

I croaked, “What’s happening?”

Before Michael could answer, another blast shook the car.

Michael yelled, “Stay down!”

Ignoring him, I raised myself enough to peek my head over the back of front seat and peer out the windshield, which had been obscured with ashy ice, and blown snow.

I ducked instinctively when the bay windows on each side of the manse’s front door exploded outward. I leaned back until the rear bench caught me.

Shards of glass hailed down on drifted snow. Dark smoke pushed out into the cold.

I gasped, “You okay?” The effort of speech led to more coughing, and I felt light-headed.

Michael turned and said, “I’m good, you?”

I nodded, and said, “But sleepy… dizzy... can’t catch breath...”

I coughed, and my ears popped. I leaned forward to tell him not to worry, but Michael was working his phone. He tapped in a few more digits than 9-1-1.

Whoever Michael dialed did not keep him waiting.

 “It’s Powers. Yes, I require assistance. I need a patrol supervisor, fire, and ambulance. Ping my GPS for location. I’m on Hixon, between Bronte and Jones. They’ll see it. Multiple explosions, heavy smoke and fire in a two-storey detached. No occupants. Advise fire they’ll need foam, hazmat and breathers.”

I followed Michael’s gaze to the black smoke billowing up through the bare branches of the maple tree.

Michael nodded to the voice on the phone. “Yes. Large quantity of opioids, my guess is fentanyl found on scene.”

I heard sirens. We were just blocks from the Bronte Fire Station.

“No, I’m fine…  good.” Michael reported. “Yes. Advise paramedics I will administer naloxone on scene. Their patient is Book, Thomas.”

Michael smacked open the glove compartment and pulled out a small blue plastic box. It was labelled with an O.P.P. shield, a first aid cross, and “Narcan” in bold letters.

Michael smiled and said to the phone, “No, not a suspect.”

A black pickup frosted with road salt rolled by slow. I heard a low rumble in the truck’s exhaust. I wondered if the driver was curious about the fire or wanted to help. The rumble grew louder as the truck sped past Michael’s car.

The truck’s rear gate was down. A cargo net was tied across the opening. Through the holes in the flapping orange plastic, I saw a familiar rusty red machine on small rubber tires.

I pointed.

“You see that truck?”

 Michael nodded and mouthed, “Got it.”

Michael continued on his phone. “No… no weapons evident. No suspects present. Advise search for vehicle leaving the scene. Late model, Ford F-150, black. Snowblower in back. Ontario plate…”

The sirens grew close and whined out in several tones.

I said, “I think that was Virgil’s truck. I recognize the snowblower.”

Michael put the Taurus in gear and gave it some gas. He pulled around my little car and down the street.

“Are we going to follow him?”

“No. We’re getting out of the way.”

Flashing red lights, the wailing of a siren, and the bold deep honk of a pumper truck’s horn announced the arrival of the fire-fighters.

Michael shifted the car into park. He turned to me and ordered, “Lay down, I have to give you a shot.”

12

“You’re in better shape than the folks we usually pick up at the hospital,” Gwen said. “But not much.”

The joke was undone by the look on her face. As Gwen says about talking with her mother, not every smile is a laugh.

“Climb in,” Gwen said, as she started the funeral car.

My legs were stiff, and my scraped knees stung as I lowered myself into the black sedan. I fingered the recline button, and the magical control that caused heat to radiate through the seat. I groaned with relief, and gratitude. The short walk through the sliding glass doors and out into the cold had left me weak and shivering.

“I’m glad you didn’t make me lie in the back of a transport van.”

Gwen steered away from Emergency, following the exit lane towards Hospital Gate. She paused at the red light then hit the gas for a quick right on to Dundas Street, just ahead of a rusted brown Dodge pickup pulling a horse trailer. There was ice on the corner, and the Cadillac’s rear end slid out wide. A warning beep issued from the dash.

Gwen muttered, “Be quiet, you.”

Was she was telling me or the car?

The sun was low in the grey sky. I checked my Nike running watch, which bore a fresh, deep scratch across its crystal face. Almost six, which explained the heavy traffic.

The watch was a Christmas gift from my mother, the first time I trained for a marathon.

Mom taught history. When we were kids she turned every car-ride into a lesson. I could hear her saying, “Eighteen-wheelers and commuter SUV’s have replaced farmer’s wagons and the carriages of military officers, but this stretch of the old Governor’s Road has been busy since the British built it for their army.”

Gwen’s heavy silence was a warning she was building steam. She’d soon let it off. She steered hard a left to Bronte Road.

The sun sank behind us, giving up for the day. Gwen drove south-east towards Lake Ontario. The headlights coming at us felt bright. I rubbed at my eyes.

Gwen asked, “So are we going home?”

“I need to get my car.”

She turned to face me. The space between her eyebrows narrowed, like it does. “You think you’re okay to drive? Didn’t you say you’d been drugged?”

“My blood work was negative for opioids. They took care of my head and swabbed out my scraped knees. Gave me another shot for…”

 “I’ll give you a shot,” Gwen interrupted. “You had a head wound. And you smell of smoke.”

Gwen gave me her look, up and down.

“Your pants are shredded at the knees, that’s blood on your jacket and shirt, and they checked for drug poisoning because you were in respiratory distress. You want to drive tonight?”

The lines went all tight around Gwen’s eyes like on Mama Jessie’s face when she feared one of her nestlings was flitting too far from home.

“Gwen, I’m fine.”

The boulevards on either side of Bronte Road were buried under road-soiled snow. The high ridges seemed grey and alien to me, under the glare of streetlights and passing cars.

 “It’s like the moon.” Did I say that out loud?

I ran fingertips over the fresh bald spot on the back of my head. They’d snipped and shaved, then popped in staples to seal the gash from the ductwork.

The lines on Gwen’s face softened. “What?”

“When I was little my brother JP, and I climbed the snow mountains. We played we were in space.” 

Gwen’s expression softened. “You’re in space now. Why did Ed have those drugs?”

 “No idea. The fire-fighters wore haz-mat gear in case there was more we didn’t find.”

“How much smoke did you breathe in?”

“They said I was fine. Michael had a kit in his car. He took mouth swabs and injected us both even before the paramedics got there. I’m good.”

I rubbed my arm at the memory of Michael’s jab. It was like an epi-pen and left a bruise.

“Naloxone. I just ordered kits for our prep rooms. We had a seminar. With the synthetics like fentanyl, you inhale it or get it on you, and it can stop your breathing. How’s Michael?”

“Better than me. They checked his blood and treated him for smoke inhalation. He needed to stop by the police station, which is why I called you.”

“You talk to Hope?  Tell her you were out playing Robin to Michael’s Batman?”

“I texted her to say we’re okay. She’d recognize the house if she saw the story online.”

We emerged from under the QEW bridge, and my eyes were assailed by the aggressive brightness of the car dealerships on the service road.

Gwen asked, “Do they know what happened?”

“Someone snuck behind the house. They broke a basement window, poured gasoline on a futon couch, and threw in the can. They also tossed in a propane tank from the back deck barbecue. All it took was a match.”

“Lot of damage?”

“Horrible black smoke from the futon mattress. The propane tank exploded. The blast blew out windows and propelled shards of metal into the walls of the family room. There’s foam everywhere from the fire crew. I saw it on Michael’s phone while we waited for blood work.”

“How’d he get the video?”

“Police had a team in as soon as the fire captain said it was safe.”

“We’re almost at the manse,” Gwen said, “but we could just head home, get your car tomorrow. We can pick up some Thai for supper, yeah?”

“That sounds good, and I am hungry, but I’ve got something on.”

“Like what?”

Her eyebrows scrunched up again.  I paused to choose my words.

We passed the Bronte fire station, and Gwen slowed the big sedan for the left at Hixon. The street showed no signs of the afternoon’s excitement. The snowplow had come through, scraping over the tracks of emergency vehicles.

Gwen asked, “What’s more important than supper and a good night’s rest?”

Commuter cars dripped salt on their driveways. The strange blue light of flat screen televisions pulsed out of picture windows.

“I called Betty about the manse. When she heard I was okay she asked me to a meeting at Attie’s house. Attie wants us to talk Kat into calling off the next video shoot at the church.”

Gwen turned the wheel hard and stopped the car in front of the manse.

Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the driveway. Unfinished plywood was tacked over shattered windows.

I wondered what the folks in the starter mansions thought about their neighbour.

“You were almost blown up.” Gwen declared. “There should be down time for that. And you’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“You’d think so, but…”

The Cadillac’s horn honked loud as Gwen slapped the steering wheel with both palms.

She jerked her hands away from the wheel and looked up and down the street.

“Why do you let that Betty push you? Am I the only woman you can tell no?”

“You asked me to do the Sayers funeral. On my vacation. I didn’t say no.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Gwen pointed at the manse. Streetlight glare made shadows in the oversized boot-prints and hose trails left in the snowy front yard.

“It’s that Betty’s fault you were here today almost getting blown up or poisoned. The last thing you need tonight is to play referee at a church lady cat-fight.”

I stifled a laugh. “You’re not wrong. But I grew up hearing Mom’s stories of Attie terrorizing the Colborne staff. I’d like to spare Betty some of that if I can.”

Gwen eased off the brake and the Cadillac rolled toward the only other car on the road. My little tan hatch-back sat in front of one of the super-sized houses half a block from the manse.

The snowplow had left my car in a furrow of icy snow that rose above the tires.

“How much does Ms. Betty remind you of your mom?”

“Betty is happily married and doesn’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Still, she’s old enough to be your mother and you seem to jump when she calls.”

Gwen shook her head and put the car in park. She hit the trunk release and opened her door. Cold night air rushed in. 

“I’ve got a shovel in the trunk. I’ll clear the snow. See if your little go-kart will start.”

I popped my seat belt. Pain spiked in both knees as I clambered out.

“Michael called it a tin box. I love that car.”

“Yeah, I know. It was Carrie’s. But it’s still a little go-kart. Let’s get you out of that snow-bank, so you can head out into the dark night, in search of more trouble.”