The Killing Circle (15 page)

After seeing a ghost reading my book, after my lunch with Angela, after glimpsing a monster in my own back yard, you’d think I’d be packing up and moving me and Sam to a different time zone by now. But the events of the past few days have instead provided the answer to an age-old question: Why do characters in horror movies go back into the haunted house one more time, even when the audience is shouting
Run! Start driving and
keep
driving!
at the screen? It’s because you don’t know you’re
in
a horror movie until it’s too late. Even when the rules that separate what is possible from what is not start to give way, you don’t believe you’re going to end up as just another contribution to the body count, but that you’re the hero, the one who’s going to figure out the puzzle and survive. Nobody lives their life as though they’ve only been cast in a grisly cameo.

And besides, in my case it’s not the house that’s haunted. It’s me.

When I called Petra back she sounded as though she couldn’t remember who I was.

“Patrick Rush,” I said again. “From the writing circle.
You
called
me.
”

“Oh yes. I wonder if you could come around later this afternoon?”

“I wouldn’t mind knowing what this is about.”

“Say five o’clock?”

“Listen, I’m not sure I—”

“Great! See you then!”

And then she hung up.

I know the sound of someone pretending they’re speaking to someone else on the phone (I’m friends with Tim Earheart, after all, surely one of the best multiple-affair managers in contemporary journalism). But what reason would Petra have to conceal my identity from whoever was in the room with her?

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 treeshrouded 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 bigcity 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 something 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.