for the road.”
We knew what we’d see when we passed the car, and we weren’t wrong. A man’s body lay stretched over the front seats, pushed down out of sight, his wide eyes staring at the roof, throat gaping open.
“Keep going,” Jeremy murmured.
We walked to the road, then headed along the front of the service center.
“Chauffeured at knifepoint,” I said.
“So it would appear,” Jeremy said. “I was keeping a watch behind us, but I don’t recall seeing that vehicle—or seeing it for long enough to appear suspicious.”
“Meaning he followed at a distance.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Clay said. “He’s gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, time to go home.”
I turned back to Jeremy. “It must be the letter, right? We did something with that letter last night, and opened a time hole into the nineteenth century—”
Clay snorted.
I turned on him. “Oh, sorry, is my explanation a little too far-fetched for
you
? The guy who turns into a wolf a couple times a week?”
“I’m just saying—”
“That there’s a logical explanation. Sure. How’s this? He’s a mugger with retro fashion sense, and he was hiding under a sewer grate in Cabbagetown, waiting for a mark to wander past. That transformer fell, scared the shit out of him and he jumped from his hole and ran for his life. Then he saw us chasing him, realized we could identify him—by his serious BO if nothing else. He decided he had to take us out before we reported him to the police for sewage-hole trespassing with intent to commit robbery.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s no less likely than ‘he jumped through a time hole,’ is it?”
Jeremy motioned for us to resume walking. “I’ll have to agree with Elena. A supernatural explanation is most probable, something connected to the letter. Presumably, he came through that time hole or portal or whatever it might be, and wanted the letter back.”
“And was somehow able to track it after he got away last night,” I said.
“None of which matters,” Clay said. “Because only one guy came through that portal, and now he’s dust.”
“True,” Jeremy said. “With any luck, that’s the end of it. But we’ll need to make sure.”
Clay opened his mouth to protest, but Jeremy continued. “It will be a quick trip. We go back, we scout the area, make sure nothing else has happened and there are no traces of anyone else passing through. If all goes well, which I expect it will, we’ll be sleeping in our own beds tonight.”
Soundbite
WE MADE IT BACK TO TORONTO BY EARLY AFTERNOON AND headed for Cabbagetown.
When I walked toward the crime scene, it was Jeremy at my side. Clay would keep watch.
At the end of the street there were no obvious signs of trouble—no police cars, no ambulances, no fire trucks. Yet something was wrong. Residents were out in their yards and on the sidewalks, talking in pairs and trios. Gazes skittered up and down the road, and the clusters disintegrated at the first sign of an unfamiliar face, people making beelines for their front doors, as if suddenly remembering they’d left the kettle on.
The cause of their unease? Probably something to do with the small swarm of journalists buzzing along the street. Across the road, a camera operator was getting setting shots, filming the other side of the street, the peaceful side, preparing for the “Today, in this quiet Toronto neighborhood…” intro. As for “what” had happened in this particular quiet Toronto neighborhood, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to find out.
I steered Jeremy toward a scattering of print reporters, all scouting for contacts and sound bites. We stopped on the sidewalk.
“It looks like something happened,” I said in a stage whisper. “Do you think it has anything to do with our power going out last night?”
It took less than five seconds for a reporter to bite.
“Excuse me. You folks live around here?”
We turned to see a potbellied man in serious need of a hairbrush,
We knew what we’d see when we passed the car, and we weren’t wrong. A man’s body lay stretched over the front seats, pushed down out of sight, his wide eyes staring at the roof, throat gaping open.
“Keep going,” Jeremy murmured.
We walked to the road, then headed along the front of the service center.
“Chauffeured at knifepoint,” I said.
“So it would appear,” Jeremy said. “I was keeping a watch behind us, but I don’t recall seeing that vehicle—or seeing it for long enough to appear suspicious.”
“Meaning he followed at a distance.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Clay said. “He’s gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, time to go home.”
I turned back to Jeremy. “It must be the letter, right? We did something with that letter last night, and opened a time hole into the nineteenth century—”
Clay snorted.
I turned on him. “Oh, sorry, is my explanation a little too far-fetched for
you
? The guy who turns into a wolf a couple times a week?”
“I’m just saying—”
“That there’s a logical explanation. Sure. How’s this? He’s a mugger with retro fashion sense, and he was hiding under a sewer grate in Cabbagetown, waiting for a mark to wander past. That transformer fell, scared the shit out of him and he jumped from his hole and ran for his life. Then he saw us chasing him, realized we could identify him—by his serious BO if nothing else. He decided he had to take us out before we reported him to the police for sewage-hole trespassing with intent to commit robbery.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s no less likely than ‘he jumped through a time hole,’ is it?”
Jeremy motioned for us to resume walking. “I’ll have to agree with Elena. A supernatural explanation is most probable, something connected to the letter. Presumably, he came through that time hole or portal or whatever it might be, and wanted the letter back.”
“And was somehow able to track it after he got away last night,” I said.
“None of which matters,” Clay said. “Because only one guy came through that portal, and now he’s dust.”
“True,” Jeremy said. “With any luck, that’s the end of it. But we’ll need to make sure.”
Clay opened his mouth to protest, but Jeremy continued. “It will be a quick trip. We go back, we scout the area, make sure nothing else has happened and there are no traces of anyone else passing through. If all goes well, which I expect it will, we’ll be sleeping in our own beds tonight.”
Soundbite
WE MADE IT BACK TO TORONTO BY EARLY AFTERNOON AND headed for Cabbagetown.
When I walked toward the crime scene, it was Jeremy at my side. Clay would keep watch.
At the end of the street there were no obvious signs of trouble—no police cars, no ambulances, no fire trucks. Yet something was wrong. Residents were out in their yards and on the sidewalks, talking in pairs and trios. Gazes skittered up and down the road, and the clusters disintegrated at the first sign of an unfamiliar face, people making beelines for their front doors, as if suddenly remembering they’d left the kettle on.
The cause of their unease? Probably something to do with the small swarm of journalists buzzing along the street. Across the road, a camera operator was getting setting shots, filming the other side of the street, the peaceful side, preparing for the “Today, in this quiet Toronto neighborhood…” intro. As for “what” had happened in this particular quiet Toronto neighborhood, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to find out.
I steered Jeremy toward a scattering of print reporters, all scouting for contacts and sound bites. We stopped on the sidewalk.
“It looks like something happened,” I said in a stage whisper. “Do you think it has anything to do with our power going out last night?”
It took less than five seconds for a reporter to bite.
“Excuse me. You folks live around here?”
We turned to see a potbellied man in serious need of a hairbrush,
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