He said, “I should have come myself. Forced the issue. Then he could not have avoided me.”

“I don’t think that’s what he needs. That is—I had the impression—it would have made things worse.”

“You may be right. Still, I could come there if necessary.” He added, “I suppose I’m feeling guilty about demanding so much of your time.”

“It’s all right.”

“Is it really? You weren’t so obliging when you began the project. I had to talk you into leaving.”

“I think it’s different now—meeting him and all. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Some kind of monster.”

“Are you sure he’s not?”

She was quietly shocked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Only that it’s easy to forget that he is what he is. He has abilities you won’t have encountered. His point of view is unique. He may not feel bound by conventional behavior.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you really, Susan? I hope so. I worry that you might be projecting your own concerns onto him. That would be a mistake.”

“I know.” (But she was blushing.) “There’s no danger of that.”

“Then I’m sorry I mentioned it.” He was being very Old World now, very charming. “I really do appreciate the work you’re doing, Susan.”

She thanked him—cautiously.

He said, “Stay as long as you like. But keep in touch.”

“I will.”

“And ultimately—if there’s nothing we can do—”

“I know,” she said. “I’m prepared for that.”

She was lying, of course.

Benjamin called that evening. The call was brief, but Susan could hear the anxiety in his voice.

“There’s a problem,” he said.

“What is it? Is it John? Is he sick?”

Cold night and the city bright but impersonal beyond the windows.

“He’s thinking of leaving town,” Benjamin said. “You want the truth? I think he’s afraid of you.”

“We have to talk,” Susan said.

She met him at an all-night cafeteria on Yonge Street.

The club next door was hosting a high-powered reggae band; the bass notes came pulsing through the wall. Susan ordered coffee and drank it black.

Benjamin came in from the street shivering in his checkerboard flannel jacket. She marveled again at how unlike John he was: nothing to distinguish this man from anyone else on the street. He smiled as he pulled up his chair, but the smile was perfunctory.

He shucked his jacket and ordered a coffee. He added cream and sugar, sipped once, said: “Oh—hey, that’s good. I needed that.”

“You look tired.”

“I am. Ever since we had our talk … I guess I’m kind of reluctant to fall asleep. Don’t know who’ll wake up. He wants more time, Susan. All of a sudden he’s fighting me.”

“I didn’t know he had a choice.”

“You come to terms with something like this. But there was never any real conflict before. I mean, you don’t understand what it’s like. It’s not something you think about if you can help it. You just live your life. I think … John was fading because he didn’t really care anymore. He let me do what I wanted and he wasn’t around much. Now … this whole thing has stirred him up.”

Susan leaned forward across the table. “You can tell that?”

“I feel him wanting to be awake.” Benjamin sat back in his chair, regarding her. “You think that’s a good thing, don’t you?”

“Well, I—I mean, it’s important to know—”

“I had to take a couple of days off.” Benjamin smiled ruefully. “John was kind enough to phone in sick for me.”

“You said he was thinking about going away?”

“Both of us have been. I talked to Amelie about it. I asked her if it would be okay, you know, if I didn’t see her for a while.”

“What did she say?”

“Basically, that it would be okay, but it wouldn’t make her happy.” He took a compulsive gulp of coffee. “If we do this—if we go for treatment—would it be possible for Amelie to come along? There’s not much to keep her here. I mean, budget permitting and all.”

“I’d have to talk to Dr. Kyriakides. It may be possible.” She hoped not. But that was petty. “You were saying about John—”

“John’s pulling in the opposite direction. I don’t usually have much access to his thoughts, you know, but some things come through. He’s thinking of leaving, but not for treatment. He wants to hit the road. Get out of town. Run away.”

“From me?”

“From this doctor of yours. From the situation But yes, you’re a part of it. I think you disturbed him a little bit. There’s something about you that worries him.”

“What? I don’t understand!”

Benjamin shrugged. “Neither do I.”

“You think there’s a chance he’ll really do it?”

“Leave? I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe, if he panics. This is all new territory for me, you know. It’s hard to explain, but … I was just getting used to living a life. I mean, I know what I am. I’m a shadow. I’m aware of that. I was always a shadow. I’m something he made up. But I look around, I have thoughts, I see things—I’m as alive as you are.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to go back to the way it was before. You know what I like, Susan? I like the sunshine. I like the light.” His gaze was very steady and for a moment he did remind her of John. “So is that why you’re here? To send me back into the shadows?”

Susan inspected the Formica tabletop. “No. No one wants that.”

“Because you’re right. There is something happening to us. Something up here.” He tapped his head. “I can feel it. Like the boundaries are loosening up. Things are stirring around. And I don’t know where that’s taking me.” He added, “I have to admit I’m a little bit scared.”

Susan took his hand. “Both of you need help. We have to make sure both of you get it.”

“The thing is, I don’t know if I can do that. I’ll do what I can. Whatever happens, I’ll try to keep in touch. I’ll let you know where we are. But I’m not in charge here. It’s not my choice.”

“Tell me what I can do.”

“I don’t know.” He smiled wearily. “Probably nothing.”

8

Tony Morriseau was hanging out at the comer of Church and Wellesley minding his own business when he saw the Chess Player coming toward him.

Actually, stalking him was more like it. This was unusual, and Tony regarded the Chess Player’s lanky figure with a faint, first tremor of unease.

Tony knew the Chess Player from the All-Nite Donut Shop on Wellesley. Tony had never spoken to him, but the guy was a fixture there, poised over his board like a patient, predatory animal. Hardly anybody ever played him. Certainly not Tony. Tony wasn’t into games. His experience was that the Chess Player didn’t talk and nobody talked to the Chess Player.

Still, Tony recognized him. Tony was a quarter Cree on his mother’s side and liked to think he had that old Indian thing, keeping his ear to the ground. Tony made most of his money—which was not really a lot—selling dope out of the back of his 78 Corvette, parked just down the block. His profit margins weren’t high and his only steady customers were the local gay trade and some high school kids. Still, Tony was a fixture on the street; he had been here since ’84. Same Corvette, same business. He told himself it was only temporary. He wanted to make significant money, and this—dealing in streetcorner volume at a pathetic margin, from a supplier who had been known to refer to Tony as “pinworm”—this wasn’t the way to do it. He would find something else. But until then …

Until then it was business as usual—and what did this geek want from him, anyhow?

Tony pressed his back against a brick wall and gave the Chess Player a cautious nod. The evening traffic rolled down Church Street under the lights; an elderly Korean couple strolled past, heads down in abject courtesy. Tony looked at the Chess Player, now directly in front of him, and the Chess Player stared back. Big deep hollow eyes, round head, burr haircut. He made Tony distinctly nervous. Tony said, “Do I know you?”