The Killing Circle

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