TWENTY-SIX
We’re set up at the entrance to the Yorkdale subway station, waiting for the mall to close and our prime suspects to appear.
“You take the cell,” Vinny says. He borrowed his mother's cell phone for tonight, so we can hook up after we’re done tailing these guys home. Whoever has the phone will have to wait for the other to call.
“Why me?”
“Because, I saw on Sixty Minutes how this brand gives off the highest radiation. Thing should come with a Geiger counter. My mother got it years ago. It's prehistoric.”
“No one ever got cancer from using a cell phone.” I give him a look.
“Not yet. But give it a few years.”
“Besides, you should keep it. Then I can call you from a pay phone and keep track of you.”
Vin shakes his head. “No way. I don’t even stay in the room when the microwave's on.”
Bringing the cell was a good idea. I should have thought of it and taken one from work.
According to our synchronized watches, it's now 10:05. We’ve narrowed down our hit list to two: the guard we’re calling Red, and the guy we’re calling Jumbo, the steroid case with the mustache.
Mom's soy-cheese pizza is dying a slow death in my gut, making me crabby. It's bugging me that Vin won’t take the phone. If something happens to him, it's on me. I dragged him here.
“Last night I rented The Silence of the Lambs,” Vin tells me. “And American Psycho. Tried to pick up some tips.”
“Those aren’t exactly FBI training films. The pros say all those movies are ridiculous, anyway. They make the killers into these comic-book supervillains, when most of the time it's just the quiet guy next door.”
Vinny's wearing his usual—army surplus jacket, jeans, ratty sneakers. I’m all in black, T-shirt and jeans and baseball cap, wearing my steel-toed army boots just in case. Vin brought his Swiss Army knife—the idiot thing weighs about two pounds and includes scissors and a corkscrew. So he can crack open some wine after he gives the nut a haircut.
“Don’t take any chances,” I tell him. “No approaching him or saying anything to him. If he sees you, or gets suspicious at all, then just bail, okay?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Keep your distance. All we want is an address. Even if you lose him before he gets home, we'll know if he lives in the right area, the right neighborhood.”
“What is this, Stalking 101?”
“And take the stupid phone,” I tell him.
“No way.”
I give up, and make sure he at least has change for a pay phone. Vinny keeps joking around, but I can see he's nervous. And excited. He's seen too many movies.
The last shoppers, kicked out at closing time, pass by us. Then I catch sight of the old guard as he goes through the turnstiles and up the escalator to the platform.
When 10:15 rolls around, Vin says, “So we have to decide who gets who.”
“Right.” Who gets who? “I'll take whoever comes first. If you think about it, one of them might not even show. He might have a car. But Roach, he'll definitely take the subway. It's like his own twisted buffet table.”
Vinny kicks my foot. I look at him, then follow his eyes to the guy approaching the entrance.
Jumbo. Out of uniform, wearing an extra-extra-large Raptors windbreaker over a white T-shirt. I guess I’m up. Before I go, I turn to Vin.
“No risks,” I say.
He pats the bulge in his pocket. His Swiss Army knife. “Don’t worry. I’m packing a corkscrew.”
I try a smile, but it dies on my face. Giving Jumbo a head start, I wait until he's halfway up the escalator before I hop on. This guy's got muscles I never even knew existed. He could squash me like a bug.
I'll just take the advice I gave Vin—lay low, keep some distance, don’t push it.
Yorkdale has an elevated outdoor subway station, open to the night air. I turn my back to Jumbo when I see which side of the platform he's waiting on, making like I’m looking off down the tracks for the next train. The sky is gray with city lights bouncing off the clouds. I swipe a drop of sweat from my eyebrow. A couple minutes tick by; then I see Red come off the escalator.
Caught between two suspects, I shift my gaze to the bubble gum poster on the other side of the tracks. For a second it looks like Red might be going the same way as Jumbo, which would be great—I could keep track of Vinny. But then he moves off behind me to the other side of the platform.
Seconds later, Vin shows up. He glances in my direction, then past me to where Red's waiting, and I’m worried he's going to wink or nod or something stupid. But he moves on like a stranger.
Their train comes first. I watch as Vinny gets on the same car as Red.
Damn. It's the first car—Roach always rides up front. Where me and Jumbo are standing on this side of the platform, we'll be boarding in the middle of the train. Vinny's back is to me when he takes a seat inside. I have to stop myself from racing over to join him. Too late now, anyway. His train pulls out as mine rushes in.
I get on and keep an eye on the big guy, watching his reflection in the night-mirrored glass as the train races along beside the 401 highway. Jumbo stares off into space, not even noticing the two women on the train. I glance at him sideways, trying to catch him doing something suspicious. Something to give him away. But he has the same bored look as every other passenger. I’m not getting any weird vibes off him.
We ride to the end of the line. At Downsview Station, he gets off and I wait until the doors start to close to follow, giving the big guy some room. Jumbo walks to the end of the platform and takes the stairs to the surface.
This exit leads onto a side street. As I reach the top of the stairs, I see that he's stopped about ten feet away. I freeze, not sure what my next move should be.
He catches sight of something and hurries off down the sidewalk. I give him a good thirty feet, matching his pace. The streetlights are widely spaced in this neighborhood, leaving pools of darkness between them. Another block and he'll reach the main street.
Ahead of him, I see the smaller figure of a woman passing from the light into shadow. She's small and thin, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Jumbo speeds up, closing in on her.
My vision tunnels in on the two converging shadows. He's going to grab her before she can make it to the safety of the lights ahead on the main street. My heart stutters in shock, and I break into a jog. I’m still twenty feet back when Jumbo reaches her. He grabs her from behind and lifts her in the air like she weighs nothing. I hear her let out a breathless yelp. And with a little, effortless toss he spins her in the air and catches her, so she's facing him.
I stumble and almost fall on my face, but manage to regain my footing, looking up in time to see them kiss. I stop dead in my tracks, standing there in the shadows.
“You idiot!” she says, laughing and shouting at the same time. “Where did you come from?”
He sets her down. “Took the side exit.”
“Give me a heart attack! You’re buying me dinner now.”
They start walking again toward the main street. I watch them go, breathing hard, blinking the sweat from my eyes.
One thing I know from the books is that most serial killers don’t have close relationships with women.
I look up as the clouded night sky rumbles with thunder.
Now it all depends on Vinny. The odds that Red is the one just shot up.
Why couldn’t he just take the stupid phone?
Where do I go now? All I can do is wait for Vin to call. Taking the phone out of my pocket, I make sure it's on and then just stare at it for a minute, commanding it to ring. But I only left him fifteen minutes ago.
In the summer, Toronto doesn’t go to sleep till the early morning hours, and even then it's a restless sleep for the air-conditioning deprived. Leaning against a newspaper box, I watch the crowd. People rush down the stairs to catch their trains, and others drag themselves up from the depths. Laughter comes from the patio of
an Italian restaurant across the street.
I think back to the night I followed Cherry home, walking in his footsteps. Watching the women go by, I try to see them the way he does: as cold, alien creatures, rejecting and humiliating. But all I see are victims-to-be, walking on the edge.
Going back underground, I check my watch. It's been twenty-five minutes since we parted ways. I have to start doing something before I lose it. Vinny's train took him southbound, so at least if I take the train down a few stops I'll be closer to wherever he is now. I hope.
Going past Yorkdale, Lawrence West, and Glencairn Stations, I stand by the doors, keeping an eye out for Vin's green army jacket. This part of the subway line runs above ground, so any second now Vin could call, telling me he's safe. And we could have a laugh. After Eglinton West there's a long ten-minute stretch between stops, and I stare past my reflection in the glass at the streetlights whipping by.
Thirty-seven minutes. Vin should have called by now if he was following another dead end. Back at Yorkdale, he was cracking jokes like we’re playing some kind of game. I brought him into this. Anything happens to him, it's on me.
The wheels of the train let out a high-pitched squeal as we take a turn. I lean against the door, feeling cold sweat run down my back.
Forty-five minutes, and still between stops.
Too long! This is way too long. There are phones everywhere. There's no reason to take this amount of time, unless Vinny's found something and tracked Red home. Or maybe he can’t call. Maybe someone's stopping him.
Get a grip! Shut up, don’t think like that.
Finally, the train pulls into St. Clair West and I scan the people on the elevated platform for a familiar face. Should I get off here? How far do I go?
The train slows to a halt, and I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone in my hand rings. I almost drop the stupid thing, trying to press the button to answer.
“Yes?” I shout into it, covering my other ear against the noise of the doors opening and an announcement over the station P.A.
“What?” comes a voice on the other end, the static making it unidentifiable.
“Who is this?” I say.
“It's me.”
As I step out onto the platform, the P.A. shuts up.
“Thank hell,” I say.
“Speak up, man. Can’t hear you through the radiation.”
“Where are you?”
“About three blocks from Spadina Station.”
“What happened?”
“Followed Red home.”
“He lives by Spadina?” I have to raise my voice to make sure I’m getting through. This thing's a piece of crap.
“Yeah. I tailed him to a Seven-Eleven, then to his house.
I walked by the place a couple times. Guy's got a wife and kid. And a Chihuahua. I really don’t think he's the one.”
I slouch over, squeezing my eyes shut. None of that sounds right for our guy. We’re looking for a loner, and if he has a dog it'll be something vicious, a rottweiler or a pit bull. Not a little midget dog.
“You get anything?” Vin asks.
“Nah. Struck out.”
“So where does that leave us?” he says. Not really a question because he knows the answer.
I watch the rear lights of the train I was on shrinking in the darkness of the tunnel until they’re swallowed up.
“Leaves us nowhere,” I say.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Busy morning in the dungeon. As punishment for calling in sick yesterday, Jacob's making me load the unclaimed junk for the YMCA sale into their truck. The driver said he's got a bad back. “I’m paid to drive. The only thing I lift is my own fat butt.” So I put the boxes on a dolly, take the elevator up to the surface.
The drought broke last night, somewhere around three A.M. I must have finally drifted off, lying in bed with all the sheets pushed onto the floor. A wicked thunderstorm woke me up, the rain falling so hard it sounded like hail ricocheting off the windows. Getting up to close my window, I got sprayed by a gust of cool rain. Felt so good I stood there a minute getting wet, shivering when the thunder cracked close by.
Storm clouds are still darkening the sky today, tinted with that faint yellow color they get around here when a thunderstorm's brewing. The air feels heavy and electric. I dodge puddles in the alley, wheeling the dolly up to the truck. The driver's having a smoke, supervising.
Last night's dead ends really knocked the wind out of me and Vinny. We hardly spoke after we met up again for the ride back to the Jungle. What's to say? The whole thing was a washout. What a mess. All our theories and strategies added up to a big fat waste of time. The pressure I’ve been feeling, knowing the clock is running down, has eaten out a cold hollow space in my gut. But something changed last night. Something clicked inside me, or cracked inside me, and I suddenly got this feeling—that somewhere in the city, the clock has already run out, and the explosion was just too far away for me to hear.
Too late and too far away.
After dumping my load of boxes I go back down to make another run.
I’m surprised by how many there are to haul up, even though I packed them all. I’m even more surprised that pitching all this junk doesn’t begin to make a dent down in the dungeon. The shelves are still jammed. Dust bunnies run wild down the aisles, waiting for me to sweep them back under the stacks.
Up and down I go, like a minimum-wage yo-yo. When the last box is heaved into the truck, the driver looks at the cardboard mess in back and says, “Nice job.”
He disappears around the side of the truck, so he doesn’t hear the “Up yours” I send his way.
Back underground, I grab a drink from the water cooler. Jacob's listening to the radio. All news. All boring. Until one story stops me dead.
“Police and transit authorities are investigating an accident involving a forty-year-old woman hit by a subway train at Queen Station early last night. Witnesses reported that the woman was pushed into the path of an oncoming train, which was unable to brake in time. There are no suspects yet in custody, but police have a description. They are looking for a Hispanic male with a slim build and shoulder-length black hair, twenty-five to thirty-five years old. Transit authorities have handed over videotapes from the surveillance cameras at Queen Station. The victim was taken to Toronto General with severe head injuries. She is now on a respirator in what the doctors describe as a profound coma. Due to extensive brain damage, it is not known when or if she will awaken. Her name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin…. A seven-week-long drought ended last night, and more thunderstorms are forecast for today….”
Leaning against the wall by the cooler, with an empty paper cup in my hand, I stare at the radio sitting on the counter. A woman pushed. In the subway. Five minutes from here.
The air suddenly feels too thick to breathe. Good thing I’m leaning on something or my legs might give out on me. I hear myself thinking: He did it. Did it. Did it. The words run through my head like a stutter. My brain's frozen in a loop.
The sound on the radio snaps off, and I look over to see Jacob sitting hunched over the counter, his head bowed, eyes closed. I can hear him breathing heavily. It takes me a second to untangle his reaction from mine.
Then I remember his wife, and what the transit cop said about a stroke and her turning into a vegetable. Dying in slow motion.
We’re trapped down here together, refugees from the real world. We can’t save anybody. A girl, a wife, an innocent woman on the subway.
After a minute, breathing is still an effort for me, but my legs feel steadier. I drop my cup in the garbage. Jacob glances over, irritated, like I just woke him up. He looks a thousand years old and ready to drop.
“Why don’t you go find something to do,” he tells me, his voice scratchy. Translation: Get lost.
Back in the stacks I grab my lawn chair and collapse on it. After ten minutes staring at the wall the first shock fades enough for me to think again.
&
nbsp; A pusher? Doesn’t seem right for Roach. It's too… I don’t know, too clean somehow. Shoving someone off a subway platform wouldn’t give Roach the kind of thrill he's looking for.
“Kid.” Jacob's voice startles me. He's standing at the end of the row. I’ve never seen him in the stacks. “I’m on lunch,” he says, and walks off.
It's just past eleven o’clock, and he never goes till twelve. He's religious about lunchtime. I tried to switch lunch hours with him one time to grab a bite with Vinny, but he shot me down. I give him a minute to clear out, then take his seat at the counter and turn the radio back on. At the half hour the news repeats, but there's nothing new on the woman in a coma.
A couple of fourteen-year-old girls come in looking for sunglasses. They’re what Jacob calls shoppers, people who come in trying to claim stuff they never lost. Rainy days they ask for umbrellas—but they don’t know when they lost them or what exactly they look like. These days they try to scam sunglasses, but they’re never sure what color the frames were, the make, or when they lost them. If they’re too vague, your lie detector goes off.
Sorry, I tell them. I can’t help you.
I scan Jacob's newspaper for anything suspicious— disappearances, attacks—but I don’t see Roach's hand anywhere. An Italian guy comes asking about a wrench set he forgot on the bus on his way home from work. And, a miracle, I actually find it. He's so thrilled he wants to give me a tip. I say, “No. No, I can’t.” But he presses a five into my hand and I don’t press it back. I did make the guy's day.
At about twelve-thirty, Jacob's still not back. The phone rings.
“Transit. Lost and found,” I say.
“Duncan.”
“Oh, hey, Vinny. What's going on?”
“I’m watching TV.”
“That's a wild life you got there.”
“The noon news is on,” he says.
“Oh.” I know why he's calling now. Vin tells me what the news said, nothing more than I know already.
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