The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 25

And so, at last, Peter Hobson’s story and Sandra Philo’s story had converged, the death of Hans Larsen — and the other murder attempts that were to come — drawing their lives together. Sandra worked at integrating Peter’s memories with her own of that time — piecing the puzzle together, bit by bit…

Detective Inspector Alexandria Philo of the Metropolitan Toronto Police sat at her desk, staring out into space.

The evening shift would come on in half an hour, but she wasn’t looking forward to going home. It had been four months since she and Walter had split up, and Walter had joint custody of their daughter. When Cayley was with him, as she was this week, the house seemed vast and deserted.

Maybe getting a pet would help, Sandra thought. Perhaps a cat. Something alive, something that would move, something that would greet her when she came home.

Sandra shook her head. She was allergic to cats, and could do without the runny nose and the red eyes. She smiled sadly; she’d broken up with Walter so she’d stop having those very same things.

Sandra had lived with her parents through university, and had married Walter right after graduation. She was now thirty-six, and, with her daughter away, she was alone for the first time in her life.

Maybe she’d go to the YWHA tonight. Work out a bit. She looked critically at her thighs. Better than watching TV, anyway.

“Sandra?”

She looked up. Gary Kinoshita was standing there, a file folder in his hands. He was almost sixty, with a middle-age spread and tightly cropped gray hair. “Yes?”

“Got one for you — it was just called in. I know it’s almost shift change, but Rosenberg and Macavan are busy with that multiple on Sheppard. Do you mind?”

Sandra held out her hand. Kinoshita handed the file to her. Even better than the Y, she thought. Something to do. Her thighs could wait. “Thanks,” she said.

“It’s, ah, a bit gruesome,” said Kinoshita.

Sandra opened the file, scanned the description — a computer-generated transcript of the radio message from the officer who first arrived on the scene. “Oh.”

“A couple of uniforms are there now. They’re expecting you.”

She nodded, got to her feet, adjusted her holster so that it sat comfortably, then slipped on a pale green blazer over her dark green blouse. Metro’s two hundred and twelfth homicide of the year now belonged to her.

The drive didn’t take long. Sandra worked out of 32 Division on Ellerslie just west of Yonge, and the crime scene was at 137 Tuck Friarway — Sandra hated the stupid street names in these new subdivisions. As always, she took stock of the neighborhood before going in. Typical middle-class — modern middle-class that is. Tiny cookie-cutter red-brick houses in rows, with gaps between them so narrow that you’d have to squeeze sideways to get through. Front yards that were mostly driveway, leading up to two-car garages. Communal mailboxes at the intersections. Trees that were little better than saplings growing in tiny plots of grass.

Location, location, location, thought Sandra. Yeah.

A white Metro Police car sat in the driveway of 137, and the station wagon used by the medical examiner was parked illegally on the street. Sandra walked up to the front door. It was wide open. She stopped on the threshold and looked in. The body was right there, stretched out. Dead for about twelve hours, it looked like. Dried blood on the floor. And there it was, just as the transcript had said. A mutilation case.

A uniformed officer appeared, a black man who towered head and shoulders above Sandra — no mean feat; they’d called her “Stretch” in high school.

Sandra flashed her badge. “Detective Inspector Philo,” she said.

The uniform nodded. “Step to right as you come through, Inspector,” he said in a rich Jamaican accent. “Lab not been yet.”

Sandra did so. “You are?”

“King, ma’am. Darryl King.”

“And the deceased is?”

“Hans Larsen. Worked in advertising.”

“Who found the body, Darryl?”

“The wife,” he said, tilting his head toward the back of the house. Sandra could see a pretty woman in a red blouse and black leather skirt. “She with my partner.”

“Does she have an alibi?”

“Kinda,” said Darryl. “She an assistant manager at the Scotiabank at Finch and Yonge, but one of the tellers called in sick, so she worked the counter all day. Hundreds of people saw her.”

“What’s ‘kinda’ about that?”

“I think it a professional hit,” Darryl said. “No hesitation marks. Scancam show no prints. Security camera disk gone, too.”

Sandra nodded, then glanced back at the woman in red and black. “Could be a jealous wife who arranged it, though,” she said.

“Maybe,” said Darryl, looking sidelong at the corpse. “I just glad my wife like me.”

Control, the unmodified simulacrum, dreamed.

Nighttime. A blanket of clouds overhead, but with the stars somehow shining through. A giant tree, gnarled and old — maybe an oak, maybe a maple; it seemed to have both kinds of leaves. Its roots had been exposed on one side by erosion — as if it had weathered a massive storm or flash flood. A ball of woody tendrils was visible, soil clinging to them. The whole tree seemed precarious, in danger of tipping over.

Peter climbed the tree, hands grabbing branches, hoisting himself higher and higher. Beneath him, Cathy climbed as well, wind blowing her skirt up around her.

And below, far below, a … beast of some sort. A lion, perhaps. It reared up on its hind legs, rampant, the forelegs leaning against the tree. Even though it was night, Peter could see the color of the lion’s coat. It wasn’t quite the tawny shade he’d expected. Instead, it was more of a blond.

Suddenly, the tree was shaking. The lion was humping it.

The branches shook wildly. Peter climbed higher. Below, Cathy was stretching toward another branch, but it was too far. Much too far. The tree shook again and she tumbled downward .