The Killing Circle by Andrew Pyper

Author:Andrew Pyper [Pyper, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Thrillers, Suspense, Fiction
ISBN: 9780007165087
Google: LsfHMHKfF-gC
Amazon: B002TU1Q66
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2008-01-01T11:00:00+00:00

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.

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