The Night Inside Read online

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t expect you to. I never could figure out what you saw in him anyway, pompous ass that he was some days. Though I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should I?” The repentance in his tone was so false that she laughed. You should tell him, a voice in her mind whispered. It’s dark and quiet and if he thinks you’re crazy, you can always claim to be drunk. If you ask, at least then you’ll know.

  “Con,” she began casually, “did Armitage Historical Research ever call you again? I mean, after that party where you and I and Tony talked about our work for them?”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, they did. They asked for my original research notes.”

  “They asked me too. Did you give them to them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Didn’t that strike you as odd? I’ve never done a job where someone wanted my notes.”

  “So it’s a bit odd. For the bucks they paid me to do that work, they could have every note I’ve ever written. Even the naughty ones.”

  Ardeth shifted a little to face him. When she spoke, her voice had unconsciously shifted down, pitched below the laughter from the yard. “Con, if I tell you something, will you promise to hear me out and not laugh ’till I finish?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Two nights before that party, there was a fire in an abandoned warehouse downtown. I saw it on the news the same time I heard about Tony. That warehouse was one of the ones I did my study for Armitage on—you know, tracing the history of ownership from the mid-1800s until now. There were three men killed in that fire but no one knew what they were doing there. Then Armitage called and asked for all my original notes. I gave them, but I made a copy first.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It was just something that nagged at me. I couldn’t give all that information without something to show for it.” She shifted again, to stare out at the dark bulk of the trees. It was easier to tell if she couldn’t see his eyes, she decided. “Maybe it was to keep from thinking about Tony, maybe it was to keep from thinking about my thesis, but I went and looked at my notes again. That warehouse had been abandoned for a long time and before that it was owned by numbered companies and bank trustees and a vanished Russian wool merchant and a Scottish shipping company. Nothing unusual about it at all. I forgot about the whole thing until a couple of days later, when a guy from the Land Transfer Office called me. I’d given him my number when I was doing my research there. He told me that the River Street warehouse had been sold again. Two weeks after I filed my research, a numbered company bought the warehouse. I thought I’d call Armitage and tell them that.”

  “Scoring brownie points again, Ardy?” Con inquired with a touch of malice.

  “If you like, yeah. And I wanted to know what they were doing with the work I’d done for them. When I tried to call them, I just got a message saying that number was no longer in service. They weren’t in the phone book either.”

  “So?”

  “So that means that Armitage hired you and me and Tony—and maybe some other people we don’t know about—to do research. Then two weeks after I submit my report, someone buys one of the buildings on my list. Two weeks after that, the building burns down with what the police call ‘suspected drug dealers’ inside. And Armitage disappears.”

  “I repeat the question. So? Do you think Armitage, if it exists, is up to ‘no good’? That they’re involved in some deep, dark plot to buy worthless old warehouses in Toronto and burn them down?”

  “Maybe. That warehouse wasn’t worthless, Con, and it was worth a hell of a lot more burned down. None of the historical building regulations could apply to it then. Maybe they did burn it down, maybe those men were hired to commit arson.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming here.”

  “But if that’s all it was, why my research? Why yours and Tony’s?”

  “Exactly. I can’t see what Russian dynasties and sixteenth-century magicians have to do with burning warehouses for insurance money in Toronto. Ardeth,” Conrad paused, suddenly serious, “how’s your thesis going? Really?”

  “It’s not. It’s going nowhere. I keep trying to work on it but I can’t seem to concentrate.”

  “And Tony’s dead and you’d rather not think about that either.”

  “You think I’m just being paranoid.”

  “Ardy, if it was anybody but you I’d be tempted to say you should join the line-up for alien encounter stories and JFK assassination conspiracy theories. But it is you.”

  “And I don’t have an imaginative bone in my body, is that what you’re saying?” She managed to make it sound like a joke. Almost.

  “You don’t have a crazy bone in your body. What you’re doing makes perfect sense. You have a thesis that’s stalled and your ex-boyfriend just died. Rather than think about that, you’re thinking about this admittedly mysterious string of coincidences. There, Dr. Freud has spoken. You’re cured. I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”

  Ardeth laughed, the sound a little unsteady with relief that was stronger than she had expected. “I’m relieved to hear you say that, Doctor. I suppose rampant paranoid is better than having people really out to get you.” Conrad gave an evil chuckle and put a companionable arm around her shoulder.

  “Who says no one’s out to get you, my dear?”

  “Con, I’m not your type.”

  “True enough. But that blond over there by the barbecue, do you think I stand any chance with him?” Ardeth leaned over to look down at the group assembled on the patio below them. The blond in question had a sharp, pretty face framed by spiky hair and a dangling skull-and-crossbones earring.

  “I think he’s strictly a U of T type. Downsview’s too far away.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to marry him, Ardy. Just . . .” he trailed off suggestively and she laughed.

  “You’re wicked, Con.”

  “And you’re naïve. You ought to try recreational sex sometime.”

  “I thought that was dangerous these days.”

  “Not if you do it right. Oh well, I suppose someone around here has to play the goody two-shoes type.”

  “And it’ll never be you, that’s for sure. So it might as well be me. After all, I’m good at it.” Ardeth heard the undercurrent of discontent in her voice and wished she could have hidden it.

  “You’re sweet, Ardy, you know that? If I were straight, I’d marry you.” Ardeth laughed and rolled her eyes in mock horror.

  “Now I do need a beer.” As they retired from the balcony to descend back into the noise and heat of the party, the sense of relief that Con’s sensible explanation had caused faded a little. There was one thing you didn’t tell him, the voice in her mind whispered. I couldn’t, she thought back, it sounded truly paranoid. I just couldn’t tell him that I think someone has been following me.

  As she had predicted, there were at least two people sprawled on the floor, oblivious, by the time she left the party at two o’clock.

  The night air was refreshingly bracing after the hot, smoky haze in the house. The back streets of the Annex were almost deserted, only the constant hum of activity on Bloor Street two blocks south breaking the silence. She walked more quickly than usual, not looking up at the huge old houses, now subdivided into rooming houses, or renovated and converted into trendy duplexes. She loved this part of town, loved the air of age and the heavy, overhanging trees, and the infinite variety and convenience of the city at her doorstep. Even if all she ever did was go to the Korona for cheap Hungarian food or succumb to temptation at Book City once in a while. But tonight, out of the warm safety of the party, the warm certainty of Con’s rational psychoanalysis, she didn’t want to linger even in this familiar territory.

  At the corner of her street, she automatically paused for a moment to check the sign outside the Doric-columned First Church of Christ, Scientist. The sign announced that week’s sermon, and the letters
were cut from a black plastic sheet, which was placed into a lighted box. She had been impressed by the expense they went to, until she realized that they recycled the signs every three months or so, covering the same topics over and over again. This week’s subject was “Necromancy, ancient and modern (including hypnotism and mesmerism) explained.”

  Ardeth smiled a little as she passed. She’d always intended to catch that one someday. Behind her, a car door slammed, echoed by a second one. Ardeth automatically began to walk a little faster, but she didn’t look back. You’re almost home, she thought, don’t get paranoid.

  When she reached the circular drive of her building and cut across it to the stairs, she glanced back instinctively. The two men walking up the street had been closer than she thought. They were moving quickly, hands in pockets, not speaking. There was no one else on the street. She ran up the wide brick stairway to the landing of the porch that ran the width of the building. It was an old mansion, built in 1912, and since renovated with an addition on the back. Even though she lived in the new section, it was the broad, red-brick porch with its pillars that represented “home” to her, that never failed to evoke a rush of wonder, bordering on satisfied smugness, that she lived in such a place. She had just opened the battered oak front door when a voice said her name.

  She jumped, heart going still for a moment, and turned to face the figure emerging from the shadows at the far end of the porch. At first, all she saw was a pale face, crowned by a shock of copper-coloured hair. A guitar case and duffel bag banged against the black-clad figure’s knees as it stepped into the light. “Sara. Jesus, you scared me,” Ardeth said, after she could breathe again.

  “Sorry. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  “I went to a party. I didn’t realize you’d be coming over to visit.” The sarcasm went unacknowledged.

  “I didn’t either.”

  “Did you and Tyler have another fight?”

  “Yes. But can we talk about it inside?”

  “All right,” Ardeth sighed and fumbled for her keys. She didn’t offer to take Sara’s bags, but just led her younger sister to the apartment.

  “Do you have anything to eat? I haven’t had dinner.”

  “Whatever’s in the fridge or cupboard,” Ardeth replied resignedly. It would be a while before she got to sleep now, she might as well get some work done. She dug out her pocket calendar and sat down to review her schedule for the next week.

  After a few moments, Sara emerged, munching on a ham and cheese sandwich. She peered over Ardeth’s shoulder. “Jesus, Ardeth, do you schedule everything? Do you schedule sex in too? I can see it now. Foreplay 11:15 to 11:30.”

  Ardeth unclenched her jaw and tried to make her voice even. “I’m very busy, Sara. It’s end of term. And no, I don’t schedule sex. But then, I generally know who I’ll be having it with.”

  “That was a low blow.” Sara’s voice aimed for flippancy but skidded perilously close to pain.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. What happened tonight?”

  “I walked in on Tyler fucking one of those peroxide clothes hangers he claims are ‘modeling’ for his paintings,” Sara admitted, voice back under control.

  “You’ve left him for good this time, I hope.”

  “Yeah.” She dragged out the word reluctantly. “He was holding me back anyway. And the guys hated him.” Sara looked up at her. “So can I crash on your floor for a few days?”

  Ardeth turned in her chair to look at her younger sister. Sara had changed her hair again in the month since she’d last seen her. Then it had been purplish mahogany, left long and shaggy; now it was coppery, caught up in a crude, spikey topknot. She was wearing black pants, pointy-toed ankle boots and a white T-shirt. Her leather jacket was on the floor beside her. The T-shirt bore the red logo “Black Sun” over the stylized image of the band’s name, the unusual sun image rendered in ominous black. It had once been good quality—now it had been run through the laundromat a few too many times and the sun had faded to grey. Sara had a large collection of the T-shirts—they advertised the band she fronted. “The guys” were, with her, the core of the group’s shifting membership. Beyond them, Ardeth never managed to keep names and faces straight.

  She realized that Sara was still watching her expectantly, waiting for the inevitable affirmative response to her question. For a moment, Ardeth wanted to say no. For once, she wanted to refuse to be Sara’s hotel, the place she went when money ran out or relationships ran cold. For one moment, she wanted to say “You messed up your life, you fix it.” But she couldn’t. Sara was all the family she had left.

  “Sure. My couch is your couch.”

  “Thanks, Ardy. You’re a lifesaver, as usual. I’ll be no trouble.”

  “So you say. But I still get up at 6:00 in the morning. I have work to do.”

  “6:00 . . . AUGH. How do you stand it?”

  “I don’t go to bed at 4:00 in the morning,” Ardeth replied, but her smile took the disapproving edge off her voice.

  “The price of rock and roll,” Sara said with a shrug. Even as children, Ardeth had been up and noisy at the first sign of the sun, while Sara would slumber until noon if left undisturbed. Ardeth sometimes wondered if Sara had adopted her profession to suit her lifestyle, not the other way around.

  “Is that everything you’ve got?” she asked, gesturing to the duffel bag and guitar case.

  “All I’m carrying. The band gear is with Pete; I’ve got some stuff in a locker at the Gold Rush. Gotta learn to travel light, Ardy,” Sara said, gesturing at the bookshelves lining the walls, the television and VCR, the stereo, the couch and chairs. Those represented the first decent furniture Ardeth had ever owned, bought when she purchased the condo with the money left after their parents’ car accident. It had taken her six months to even think about spending her inheritance without a nagging guilt. And then, the fact that Sara was already a quarter of the way through her money financing her band had some influence on her decision. As if this were another competition—who can spend Mommy and Daddy’s money better.

  “If I traveled light, you’d be sleeping on the floor in my dorm room,” Ardeth pointed out tartly. She hated herself when she got this way, the lecturing older sister, but almost every conversation she had with Sara ended up like this. She found herself forced even harder into the role of the stable, dependable and slightly dull scholar—if only in contrast to Sara, who changed boyfriends and living accommodations almost as often as she changed hairstyles. Ardeth stood up, yawning. Best to get out of this while she still could. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “6:00, right,” Sara moaned.

  “Well, maybe 8:00. It’s the weekend.” She smiled and her sister laughed.

  “Oh well. I guess I’ll get to see what the world looks like before noon. Will you take me out to brunch?”

  “Take you?”

  “Well, we don’t get paid for the gigs this week until tomorrow night, so I’m a little short of cash.” She had the grace, or the good sense, to sound apologetic.

  “OK. Brunch it is. But you’d better be up by 10:30,” Ardeth warned. Sara opened her duffel bag and a flurry of crumpled black clothing tumbled out.

  “For free food? You bet.” Sara contemplated the scattered clothing as if they were tea leaves and there was some message in their pattern on the grey carpet, then glanced up. “Thanks, Ardeth. I appreciate it.”

  “Any time,” Ardeth replied and was relieved to discover that, deep inside, she meant it.

  Sara left Sunday afternoon, departing in the band’s battered van with Pete and Steve, the two other constant members of Black Sun. She promised to call when she had a new phone number. Ardeth sighed and added another black stroke to the column of deleted phone numbers in her address book.

  Chapter 2

  Talking to Conrad had helped after all, Ardeth discovered
. She resumed work on her thesis with renewed energy, as the ideas that had seemed so formless a week ago began to take shape. She no longer felt that someone was following her around the campus. She confined any thoughts about the Armitage mystery to idle speculation during her dull moments in the library.

  Then Conrad was murdered.

  She heard it on the news Sunday afternoon a week after the party at Peter’s. For the next two days the rumours were passed through the Grad Students pub, the library, the classrooms. Con had been stabbed, bludgeoned, shot. The villain was an old boyfriend, a new boyfriend, a complete stranger. There wasn’t much in the papers, beyond the coroner’s confirmation that the death had come from a blow to the head with a blunt object, and that police were canvassing the areas frequented by gays for information on Con’s movements that night.

  Somewhat to Ardeth’s surprise, she cried more for Con that she had for Tony. Cried and tried to ignore the cold weight in the pit of her stomach, the irrational, terrible suspicion that she was somehow responsible—that her peace of mind had come at the expense of Conrad’s life. Behind the illogical guilt was the frightening compulsion to see the patterns that Conrad had so neatly dismissed. Armitage’s disappearance, the fired warehouse, Tony’s ‘accident,’ Conrad’s murder, the echo of footsteps behind her in the night. She wondered if it was better to be crazy or really in danger.

  Routine offered some refuge from grief and speculation, so she kept to the established rhythm of her days as best she could. One ritual she clung to was her early morning walk. At 6:30, the neighbourhood was quiet, the sun just beginning to touch the empty streets. She had a usual route, so she trusted her feet to keep to the path and let her mind wander, drifting from one of her thesis arguments that was still giving her problems, to Conrad’s funeral, to Carla’s upcoming dinner party, and back to her thesis.