by Andrew Pyper
Coming out the doors of the Rosedale station I recall my conversation with Ivan in this same place. It makes me wonder if he is still driving trains underground, still writing about his imaginary metamorphosis, still alone. He might well have been behind the controls of the train that brought me here. The thought of it starts a shiver up my back in the hot sunshine. It’s not necessarily the idea of Ivan himself that does it, but that if Angela and now Petra have come looking for me, how far behind could Ivan and Len be? And if these two wait for me down the line, why not William too?
“Patrick?”
I turn around to find Petra jogging in place. Brand-new trainers on her feet. Hair tied back under a Yankees cap.
“I should warn you, I’m not in the greatest shape.”
“Sorry,” she says, and stops hopping. “I usually go for a run around this time, so I figured I’d come meet you here instead of at the house.”
“We’re not going there?”
“It’s best if we don’t.”
She gives me a pleading look, as though it’s possible that I might not only deny her request, but take her forcibly by the arm and drag her home. I’ve seen versions of the expression on Petra’s face before, though not among society divorcées but the bruised faces of women outside the shelters downtown. Women who have been conditioned to be pleading with all men, and to expect the worst anyway.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Down in the ravine. That’s where I run,” she says. “It’s cooler in the shade.”
“And more private.”
“And more private. Yes.”
I gesture for her to lead on, and she starts over the bridge that crosses the tracks. As she goes, she glances over her shoulder every few steps. We are exposed at every angle—to people exiting the station, the traffic on Yonge, as well as the tree-shrouded windows of the mansions that sit along the crest of the ravine. It makes Petra move fast.
When she pushes through the brush on the other side of the bridge and rustles down an overgrown trail, I lose her for a couple minutes. But when I break through the patches of wild raspberry at the bottom she’s waiting for me.
“I forgot to thank you for coming,” she says.
“You made it sound like I had no choice.”
“It’s not only for my benefit.”
Petra walks further along the trail. We carry on like this until the trees become thicker where the ravine opens wide. When we’ve come along far enough that we can see there’s no one for a couple hundred yards in either direction, Petra stops. Turns to me with an agitated expression, as though she hadn’t expected to find me following her.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” she says. “My schedule is pretty much set. And people notice if I make any changes to it.”
“People?”
“My personal life,” she says vaguely.
Petra puts her hands on her waist and bends over slightly, taking deep breaths as though she’s come to the end of her run and not the start of it.
“There’s a man who’s been watching me,” she says finally.
“Do you know who it is?”
“The same person who’s been watching all of us.”
“Us?”
“The circle. Or some of the circle. Len, Ivan, Angela.”
“You’ve spoken with them?”
“Len contacted me. He told me about the others.”
The entirety of our conversation to this point has taken less than a minute but it feels much longer than that. It’s the effort required in shielding my surprise from her.
“I’m guessing you think it’s the Sandman,” I say, trying to sound doubtful.
“It’s occurred to me, yes.”
“This is crazy.”
“Are you saying you haven’t seen him?”
“I’m saying I have. That’s what’s crazy.”
Petra checks the trail again. I can see her figuring how much longer she has before she should be opening her door and wiping the sweat from her eyes.
“I suppose you’ve read my book,” I say.
“Your book?”
“Okay. The book with my name on it.”
“I’ve seen it. Picked it up in the store a couple times. But I don’t want it anywhere near me.”
Petra looks suddenly lost. It’s my turn to say something to keep her here.
“Who was in the limo that picked you up from Grossman’s that night?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“It wasn’t. But that was before you told me we’re being followed by the same person.”
For a second I’m sure Petra is going to walk away. But instead, she comes to some decision in her head. One that brings her a step closer to me.
“My ex-husband’s business required his involvement in things that weren’t entirely conventional.”
“Judging by your house up that hill, it seemed to be working for him.”
“Still is.”
“So was that him in the limo?”
“It was Roman. Roman Gaborek. My husband’s business partner. Former business partner.”
“A friend of yours.”
“My boyfriend. Or something like that. He’s who I left my husband for. But my husband doesn’t know that. If Leonard knew that I was seeing Roman, it would be bad for everyone.”
“Jealous type.”
“Leonard owns people.”
“So maybe he’s the one who you’ve seen around your house.”
“It might be. And sometimes it has been. But I don’t think it’s who we’re talking about right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because this man…he’s not right.”
From somewhere behind us there’s the scurrying of something in the underbrush. The sound makes Petra jump back, hands raised in front of her. Even when she realizes there’s nobody there, she remains coiled.
“If it is the Sandman, why now?” I say. “What brought him back?”
“What do you think?”
“My book.”
“Yours. Hers. Whoever’s.”
Although responding to a signal only she can hear, Petra turns and starts off down the trail, deeper into the humid shade of the ravine. A light, prancing jog at first, then picking up the pace, her arms pumping. By the time she turns a corner and disappears she’s running as fast as she can.
The orange sky of a smog-alert dusk has darkened into evening. An hour when most of the suits and skirts are safely locked in their air-conditioned condo boxes, and the others, averse to sunshine, spill out of the dumpster alleys and piss-stained corners. The last four blocks along Queen to my house are predominately populated by the troubled and addicted at the best of times, but tonight there are even more of them milling about. It’s because they’re visitors. Even homeless junkies can be summer tourists, checking to see what the big-city fuss is all about. One toothless beauty who staggers into me takes special offence when I refuse her request for change. “But I’m on vacation!” she protests.
That makes two of us. I’m certainly not working any more. After the author tour for The Sandman was completed, my plan went no further than a retreat from occupation, from doing. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps the idleness of the past few weeks has left a space open for unwanted elements to enter. How else to explain the return of the Kensington Circle to my life?
Of course I do have a job. A single purpose I committed myself to after Tamara died: to bring up Sam. Be a good father. Share my few good points and try to hide the legion deficiencies.
And yet now, my single responsibility has turned from nurturing my son to protecting him. If there is something wretched that my wretched book has brought into the world, then the vacation is over. My job is now the same as the girl’s in Angela’s story who tried to keep a threat from the only ones she loved. To make sure that, if it comes for us, it touches only me, not him.
I make the turn on to Euclid and once more there’s a sense that som
ething isn’t right. No police tape this time, no pursuer making me run for my front door. But there’s a lightheaded pause nevertheless, a sudden churning of nausea. A sensation I’m beginning to associate with being close to him.
Where’s Sam?
He’s at home with Emmie. Sam is fine.
So why am I running? Why do I have the keys out of my pocket, the sharp ends poking out between the knuckles of my fist? Why, when my house comes into view, is there the outline of a man standing in the front window?
He sees me coming and stays where he is. Watches me slide the key in and open the door.
The front hallway is dark. He hadn’t turned the lights on, hadn’t needed to. He knew where he wanted to go.
I round the corner of the dining room where the front window looks on to the street. The room is empty. Nothing to hide behind. From here I step back into the hallway to check the rear of the house. The kitchen drawers closed, nothing unsettled on the counters. And the living room as it was left as well.
I’m about to make my way upstairs when a lick of breeze turns my attention to the sliding doors. Open. What I’d seen at first as glass now revealed as the intruder’s means of entry.
But it doesn’t mean he left by the same route. It doesn’t mean he’s not in the house.
“Sam?”
I take the stairs three at a time. Slapping at the wall as my feet skid out on the landing. My shoulder crashing into my son’s bedroom door.
“Sam!”
Even before I look to see if he’s in his bed, I check the window. Blood tattooed on the curtains. But it’s closed, the curtains untouched. His bed made, just as he’d left it this morning.
Then I remember. He’s over at his friend Joseph’s across the street. A birthday party. Sam’s not here because he’s not supposed to be here.
I cross the hall and grab the phone. Joseph’s mother answers.
“I just…the back door…could you please put Sam on?”
Half a minute passes. Something is wrong. All that’s left is for Joseph’s mother to come back on the line and say, That’s funny. He was here with the other kids the last time I checked.
“Dad?”
“Sam?”
“What’s going on?”
“Are you inside?”
“That’s where the phone is.”
“Right.”
“Where are you?”
“At home. There was…I forgot to…Oh, Jesus…”
“Can I go now?”
“I’ll come pick you up when the party’s over, okay?”
“I’m across the street.”
“I’ll pick you up anyway.”
“Sure.”
“Bye, then.”
“Bye.”
Whoever was standing in the window had got the right house this time. But it was the wrong night.
Luck. Who’d have thought there’d be any left for me, after all my undeserved laurels, my devil deals? Yet Sam is alive. Eating cake and horsing around in my neighbour’s basement.
It’s time, however, to get some help. Not of the psychiatric variety (although this seems increasingly inevitable) but the law. There’s no more room to wonder if the Sandman is real or not. There was someone in my house. And now it’s time to bring in the guys with badges and guns.
But before I can pick up the phone, it starts to ring.
I look up to see that my bedroom curtains are drawn open. Left that way from this morning when I’d pulled them wide to let the light in. But now, at night and with the bedside lamp on, I would be visible to anyone on the street.
The phone keeps ringing.
If I’m about to speak to the terrible man who does terrible things, I can’t help wondering what words he wants to share with me.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Rush?”
Some sort of accent.
“If this is about your goddamn manuscript, I can’t help you. Now if you don’t mind stuffing your precious–”
“I’ve got some bad news for you, Mr. Rush.”
“Who is this? Because I know he’s safe, alright? So if you’re–”
“I think there’s some confusion here–”
“–trying to threaten me, I’ll call the police. You hearing me?”
“Mr. Rush—Patrick—please. This is Detective Ian Ramsay, Toronto Police Services. I’m calling about your friend, Petra Dunn.”
A Scottish lilt. The giveaway of an immigrant who’s been here for the better part of his life but still hasn’t wholly lost the accent of the homeland. It distracts me for a moment, so that when he speaks his next words, I’m still trying to guess whether he’d more likely be from the Edinburgh or Glasgow side of things.
“We believe she’s been murdered, Mr. Rush,” he says.
The police, when they arrive, take the form of a single man, a tall plainclothesman with bright green eyes that suggest one needn’t take him too seriously. A moustache that seems an afterthought, an obligatory accessory he’d be more comfortable without. I’ve never been around a real detective before, and I try to prepare myself to be at once cautious and relaxed. And yet his open features, along with finding myself a couple inches wider than he (I’d expected a broad slab of recrimination), instantly make me feel that no real harm can come from this man.
“I’m here about the murder,” he says, with practiced regret, as someone in coveralls might arrive at the door to say I’m here about the cockroaches.
I extend my arm to invite him in and he brushes past, makes his way directly into the living room. It’s the sort of familiar entrance an old friend might make, one comfortable enough to go straight for the bar and not say hello until the first gulp is down.
When I follow him in, however, Detective Ramsay hasn’t helped himself to a drink, but is standing in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back. He gestures for me to sit—I take the arm of a ratty recliner—while remaining standing himself. Even being half-seated, however, concedes the weight advantage I’d briefly held. For what might be a minute, it seems I’m of little interest to him. He looks around the room as though every magazine and mantelpiece knick-knack were communicating directly to him, and he wants to give each of them the chance to speak.
“Are you a married man, Mr. Rush?”
“My wife passed away seven years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yourself?”
He raises his hand to show the gold band around his ring finger. “Twenty years in. I tell my wife a fellow does less time for manslaughter these days.”
I try at a smile, but it doesn’t seem that he’s expecting one.
“Someone told me you’re a writer.”
“I’m out of it now,” I say.
“Going into a new line of work, are you?”
“Not decided on that yet.”
“Would’ve thought the writing life would be close to ideal. No boss, set your own hours. Just making things up. Not work at all, really.”
“You make it sound easier than it is.”
“What’s the hard part?”
“All of it. Especially the making things up.”
“It’s a lot like lying, I imagine.”
He steps over to the bookshelf, nodding at the titles but seemingly recognizing none of them.
“I’m a pretty avid reader myself,” he says. “Just crime novels, really. Can’t be bothered with all that Meaning of Life stuff.” Detective Ramsay turns to look at me. His face folds into a disapproving frown. “Can I ask what you find so funny?”
“You’re a detective who only reads detective novels.”
“So?”
“It’s ironic, I guess.”
“It is?”
“Perhaps not.”
He returns his attention to the shelves until he pulls out my book.
“What is it?” he says.
“I’m sorry?”
“What kind of book is it?”
“I’m never quite sure what to sa
y to that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s tricky to categorize.”
Detective Ramsay opens the back cover to look at the author’s photo. Me, looking grumpy, contemplative, air-brushed.
“That title’s quite a coincidence,” he says.
“Yes?”
“The Sandman killings a few years ago. I was the lead investigator on that one.”
“Really.”
“Small world, isn’t it?”
“I suppose, on some level, the title was inspired by those events.”
“Inspired?”
“Not that what the murderer did was inspirational. I mean it only in the sense that it gave me the idea.”
“What idea?”
“The title. That’s all I was talking about.”
His eyes move down and at first I wonder if there’s a stain on my shirt. Then I realize he’s looking at my hands. I resist the reflex to slip both of them in my pockets.
Ramsay brings his eyes up again. Repeatedly lifting and lowering my book as though judging its merits based on weight alone.
“Mind if I borrow this?”
“Keep it. There’s plenty more in the basement.”
“Oh? What else have you got down there?”
It’s only the laugh he allows himself after a moment that indicates he’s joking. In fact, everything he says in his half-submerged brogue could be taken as a dry joke. But now I’m not sure any of it is.
“I need to run through your day with Ms. Dunn,” he says, putting my book down on a side table and producing a notebook from his jacket pocket.
“It wasn’t a day. I was with her for twenty minutes at most.”
“Your twenty minutes then. Let’s start with those.”
I tell him how Petra left a message with me the night before, asking to speak in person. The next morning I returned her call, and we arranged to meet at her house at five o’clock. On my way out of the subway she was there, wearing running attire and a Yankees cap. Reluctant to go to her house, she guided me into the ravine. She told me of her concerns about a man who seemed to be following her, someone she’d spotted outside her house at night. She was frightened, and wanted to know if I had noticed a shadow after me as well.