“Thank you,” said Peter. “Thank you very much.”

He clicked off. Peter had never heard of Melville Avenue. He called up his electronic map book and looked it up. It was here in Don Mills. Not that far. Maybe a twenty-minute drive. It was crazy, he knew — a paranoid fantasy. And yet…

He hurried to his car and put the pedal to the metal.

CHAPTER 43

Peter tried to blow holes in his theory on the way there, but instead it kept making more sense, not less. Sandra’s day off. A day when, very likely, she wouldn’t be armed. The perfect day to kill a cop.

The traffic was heavy. Peter leaned on his horn. Despite the computerized map display on his dashboard, he managed to make a wrong turn, finding himself in a dead end. Cursing, he turned around and headed in the other direction. He was driving recklessly, he knew. But if he could just warn Sandra, tell her that someone might be after her — she could protect herself, he was sure of that. She was a cop.

Finally, he turned onto Melville Avenue. Number 216 was a townhouse. Nothing ostentatious. Grass needed cutting. A brown United Parcel Service van was parked out front.

A sign warned that parking on the street was illegal before 6:00 P.M. Peter ignored that.

He looked up at the house. The front door was closed. Funny, that. Where was the delivery person?

Peter’s heart was racing. What if the killer was inside?

Paranoia. Madness.

Still…

He got out of his car, fumbled with his trunk keys, found the tire iron, grabbed it in both hands, and hurried up to the door.

He was about to press the buzzer when he heard a sound from inside: something smashing to the floor.

He hit the buzzer.

No response.

In for a penny, thought Peter, in for a pound.

There was a narrow floor-to-ceiling frosted window next to the actual door panel. Peter hit it with the tire iron. It cracked. He smashed the metal rod against it again with all his strength. The glass shattered. Peter reached inside, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

His brain fought to take it all in. A short staircase led up from the entryway to the living room. At the top of the stairs was a big man in a UPS uniform. In his hands was a device that looked a bit like an oversized wallet made of gray plastic. Lying on the floor behind him was Sandra Philo, unconscious or dead. A large broken vase was lying near her. The sound he’d heard: when she’d fallen to the ground, she must have knocked it down.

The big man raised the device he was holding and took aim at Peter.

Peter hesitated for half a second, then—

He threw the tire iron as hard as he could. It pin-wheeled through the air.

The man pressed a button on his weapon, but it made no sound. Peter dived forward.

The tire iron hit the man in the face. He tumbled backward, falling over Sandra.

Peter thought for a second about simply running away, but of course he couldn’t do that. He bolted the short flight into the living room. The killer was dazed. Peter scooped up the strange weapon as he passed. He hadn’t a clue how to use it, but then he noticed something more familiar — Sandra’s service revolver — protruding from a holster draped over the back of a chair a couple of meters away. Peter shoved the strange device into his pocket and got the gun. Standing in the middle of the room he aimed it at the killer, who was slowly regaining his feet.

“Stop!” said Peter. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

The big man rubbed his forehead. “You wouldn’t do that, mate,” he said in an Australian accent.

Peter realized he didn’t know if Sandra’s gun was loaded, and, even if it was, he wasn’t sure how to fire it. It probably had a safety mechanism of some sort. “Don’t come any closer,” said Peter.

The big man took a step toward him. “Come on, mate,” he said. “You don’t want to be a killer. You’ve no idea what was going on here.”

“I know you killed Hans Larsen,” said Peter. “I know you were paid one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars to do it.”

That shocked the man. “Who are you?” he said, still moving closer.

“Stay there!” shouted Peter. “Stay there or I’ll shoot.” Peter looked down at the gun. There — that must be the safety catch. He moved it aside and cocked the weapon. “Stay back,” he yelled. But Peter himself was backing up now. “I’ll shoot!”

“You don’t have the balls, mate,” said the man, moving slowly across the living room toward him.

“I will shoot!” cried Peter.

“Give me the gun, mate. I’ll let you walk out of here.”

“Stop!” said Peter. “Please stop!”

The big man reached out a long arm toward Peter.

Peter closed his eyes.

And fired—

The sound was deafening.

The man tumbled backward.

Peter saw that he’d hit him in the side of the head. A long red scrape ran across the right side of his skull.

“Oh my God…” said Peter, in shock. “Oh my God…”

The man was now splayed across the floor, like Sandra, dead or unconscious.

Peter, barely able to keep his balance, his ears ringing furiously, staggered back to where Sandra was lying. There was no sign of injury to her. Although she was breathing, she was still out cold.

Peter went down to the small den off the front hall and found the videophone. It was engaged, and the screen was filled with numbers. Peter recognized the logo of the Royal Bank of Canada; Sandra must have been logged on to do some at-home banking when she’d been interrupted by the deliveryman. Peter broke the connection.

Suddenly the killer appeared in the doorway. The gouge across the side of his head was dry. Beneath it, Peter could see what looked like shiny metal—

Shiny metal. God.

An immortal. An actual immortal. Well, why not? The fucking guy made enough money.

Peter still had Sandra’s gun. He aimed it at the man.

“Who are you?” said the Australian. Yellow teeth were visible when he spoke.

“I — I’m the guy who hired you,” said Peter.

“Bull.”

“I am. I hired you by electronic mail. I paid you one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars to kill Hans Larsen, and a hundred K to kill this detective. But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want her dead.”

“You’re Avenger?” said the man. “You’re the guy who hired me to cut that bloke’s dick off?”

Good God, thought Peter. So that’s what the mutilation had been. “Yes,” he said, trying not to show his revulsion.

“Yes.”

The Australian rubbed his forehead. “I ought to kill you for what you tried to do to me.”

“You can keep the hundred thousand. Just get the hell out of here.”

“Damn straight I’ll keep the money. I did my job.”

The tableau held for several moments. The Australian was clearly sizing Peter up — whether he would use the gun again, whether Peter deserved to die for having taken a shot at him.

Peter cocked the trigger. “I know I can’t kill an immortal,” he said, “but I can slow you down long enough for the police to get here.” He swallowed hard. “I understand a life sentence is a terrifying thought to someone who will live forever.”

“Give me back my beamer.”

“Not a chance,” said Peter.

“Come on, mate — that thing cost forty grand.”

“Bill me for it.” He waved the gun again.

The Australian weighed his options for a moment more, then nodded. “Don’t leave any fingerprints, mate,” he said, then turned and left through the still-open front door.

Peter leaned over the phone, thought for a second, then selected text-only mode and dialed 9-1-1. He typed:

All calls to 9-1-1 were recorded, but this way there’d be no voiceprint to identify him. Sandra was unconscious; she hadn’t seen Peter, and the police would probably have no reason to think anyone had been there besides the assailant, whom Sandra presumably could describe.