“Mr. Kalipedes,” called Rhonda. She motioned for him to come over, and he did so. “This is your neighborhood, sir. Can you tell me what’s at the intersection of Kipling and Homer?”

He scratched his chin with its grizzled stubble. “A Mac’s Milk, a Mr. Submarine, a dry cleaner’s. Oh yeah — and that clinic that was blown up a while ago.”

Rhonda and Hank exchanged glances. “Are you sure?” asked Rhonda.

“Of course,” said Kalipedes.

“Jesus Christ,” said Hank, realizing the magnitude of it all. “Jesus Christ.”

They hurriedly scanned the map, looking for any other markings. There were three more. One was a circle drawn in pencil around a building shown by a red rectangle on Bloor Street. Rhonda didn’t have to ask anyone what that was. It was typeset in italics right on the map: Royal Ont. Museum.

Also circled were the SkyDome — the stadium where the Blue Jays play — and the CBC Broadcasting Centre, a few blocks north of the SkyDome.

“Tourist attractions,” said Rhonda.

“Except they took a semiautomatic weapon,” said Hank.

“The Jays playing today?”

“Yup. Milwaukee is in town.”

“Anything happening at the CBC?”

“On a Sunday? I know they do a live show from the lobby there in the mornings; I’m not sure about the afternoons.” Hank looked at the map. “Besides, maybe they went somewhere other than these places. They didn’t take the map with them, after all.”

“Still . . .”

Hank didn’t need the consequences spelled out. “Yeah.”

“We’ll take the ROM — they’ve got that alien visiting there,” said Rhonda.

“It’s not really there,” said Hank. “It’s just a transmission from the mothership.”

Rhonda snorted, conveying that she knew that. She pulled a cellular phone out of her jacket pocket. “I’ll get teams sent to the CBC and SkyDome, and I’ll call for a couple of uniforms to wait here in case Falsey and Ewell return.”

Susan gave me a lift to Downsview subway station about three-thirty in the afternoon; it was cloudy, the sky bruised, a storm threatening. Ricky was spending the rest of the day with the Nguyens — my young son was developing quite a taste for Vietnamese food.

The subways were slow and infrequent on Sundays; I’d save time on my trip downtown by starting at Downsview at the north end of the Spadina line rather than at North York Centre. I gave my wife a kiss goodbye — and she held the kiss for a long time. I smiled at her. And she smiled back.

I then took the paper bag with the sandwiches she’d packed for me and headed into the station, riding the long escalator down into the subterranean world.

Rhonda Weir and Hank Li had got descriptions of Falsey and Ewell from Kalipedes. Kalipedes didn’t know which was which, but one was mid-twenties, blond, scrawny, maybe five-eight, with an overbite and a crew cut; the other was mid-thirties, three or four inches taller, narrow face, and had brown hair. Both had accents from the southern States. And, of course, one of them might well be carrying a Tec-9 submachine gun, perhaps hidden under a coat. Although the museum was crowded on Sundays — it was a favorite place for divorced fathers to take their kids — there was still a good chance that Rhonda or Hank would be able to spot them.

They parked their car in the small lot at the Bora Laskin Law Library, on the south side of the planetarium building, then walked over to the ROM, entering through the main doors and making their way over to Raghubir Singh.

Rhonda flashed her badge and described whom she and Hank were looking for.

“They were here before,” said Raghubir. “A few days ago. Two Americans with southern accents. I remember them because one of them called the Burgess Shale ‘the Bogus Shale.’ I told my wife about that when I got home — she got quite a kick out of it.”

Rhonda sighed. “Well, it’s unlikely that they’re back, then. Still, it’s the only lead we’ve got. We’ll look around, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” said Raghubir. He radioed the other security guards, getting them to join in the search.

Rhonda pulled out her cellular again. “Weir,” she said. “The suspects were here at the ROM last week; still we’re going to have a look around on the off chance that they’ve come back, but I’d concentrate our forces at SkyDome and the CBC.”

I arrived at the museum about 4:30 P.M., entered through the staff entrance, and made my way up to the Burgess Shale exhibition, just to have a final look around, to make sure everything was okay before the arrival of Hollus and company.

Rhonda Weir, Hank Li, and Raghubir Singh met up in the Rotunda at 4:45. “No luck,” said Rhonda. “You?”

Hank shook his head. “I’d forgotten how big this place was. Even if they had come back here, they could be anywhere.”

“None of my people found them, either,” said Raghubir. “A lot of patrons carry their coats in the museum. We used to have a free coat check, but that was before the cutbacks.” He shrugged. “People don’t like having to pay.”

Rhonda looked at her watch. “It’s almost closing time.”

“The school-group entrance is locked on weekends,” said Raghubir. He pointed at the bank of glass doors beneath the stained-glass windows. “They’ll have to go out through the main doors.”

Rhonda frowned. “They probably aren’t even here. But let’s wait outside and see if we can spot them leaving.”

Hank nodded and the two detectives headed through the glass-doored vestibule. It looked like it was about to rain. Rhonda used her cellular again. “Any update?” she asked.

A sergeant’s voice crackled over the phone. “They’re definitely not at the CBC Broadcasting Centre.”

“My money’s on SkyDome,” said Rhonda, into the phone.

“Ours, too.”

“We’ll head down there.” She put the phone away.

Hank looked up at the dark sky. “I hope we get there in time to see them close the stadium roof,” he said.

J. D. Ewell and Cooter Falsey were leaning against a tomato-soup-colored wall in the Lower Rotunda; Falsey was wearing a Toronto Blue Jays cap that he’d bought yesterday when they took in a game at SkyDome. A prerecorded male voice with a Jamaican accent came over the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, the museum is now closed. Would all patrons please immediately go to the front exit. Many thanks for visiting us, and do come again. Ladies and gentlemen, the museum is now closed. Would—”

Falsey flashed Ewell a grin.

Theatre ROM had four double doors that gave access to it, and these were often left unlocked. Curious patrons sometimes stuck their heads in the doors, but if no programming was going on, all they saw was a large darkened room.

Ewell and Falsey waited until the Lower Rotunda was empty, then walked down the nine steps into the theater. They stood still for a moment, letting their eyes adjust. Although the theater had no windows, there was still some light: the red glow of EXIT signs, light seeping in under the doors, a large illuminated analog clock on the wall above the doors, red LEDs from smoke detectors, and lights from a control panel or some such coming from the five little windows of the projection booth above the entrance.

Earlier in the day, Falsey and Ewell had sat through a seemingly endless film about a little wooden carving of a canoe with a male Native Canadian figure in it traveling down various waterways. But they didn’t pay much attention to the movie. Instead, they’d examined the physical structure of the theater: the presence of a stage in front of the movie screen, the number of rows of chairs, the position of the aisles, and the location of the staircases leading up to the stage.

Now they quickly made their way in the dark down the gently sloping left-hand aisle, found one of the staircases leading to the stage, climbed the steps, slipped behind the large movie screen, which hung from the roof, and entered the backstage area.