The Killing Circle

35

It’s been some hours since there’s been any feeling in my legs. I was hoping this was one of the benefits of dying from exposure—at least it kept the pain to a minimum. Now it seems I was wrong about that. The body doesn’t let go of feeling easily, even if the only sensation left to it is setting itself on fire. Frostbite? Sounds chilly, doesn’t it? Try gripping an ice cube tight in your palm. It’s only cold at first. Then it burns.

The screaming helps. My voice pushing back against the darkness that draws closer as the flames diminish in the hearth. And even now there is an idea that someone might hear me. Perhaps Angela has arranged for a deus ex machina—a kindly neighbour? a local cop?—to walk in the door and give me a lift to the Sportsman for a hot shower and a stiff drink. And I will be reformed by my experiences, the one she’d chosen as the recipient of her tough love. Wasn’t The Magus her favourite book, after all?

But this isn’t a book.

I’m taking in a breath to let out another howl when I hear the radio.

It must have been on for the whole time of this most recent wakening, but it doesn’t have a firm grasp on the frequency, so that the signal drops out from time to time. Now, abruptly, it has found itself again. The last fading bars of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head”, crackling out of the dark.

An old transistor unit on the floor by my feet. The antenna fully extended, wavering in the drafty crosscurrents. A dim blue light from the tuning dial that turns the floor around it into a shallow pool.

The announcer comes on to inform me that it’s Whitley’s easy listening station (“The smoothest sounds north of Superior”). Coming up: Perry Como, Streisand, The Carpenters. “And pull your sweetheart a little closer,” the DJ says with an audible wink, “because next we’ve got a real blast from the past—with Paul Anka!”

It makes me wonder: did Angela leave the radio with me for comfort, or further punishment? Easy listening? Maybe that was the only station she could get. Or maybe there’s a message in its selection. Milquetoast music to send off the man with no imagination.

And they call it puppy love. But I guess they’ll never know…

The fire nothing more than a stack of hissing embers. Red stars twinkling against the black bricks. Soon it will be cold and dead. Ditto the slumped man turning into a shadow.

I told her.

This comes with a stab to the chest. Followed by a shuddering fight to pull a whole breath in. A blown nose leaves a spray of blood over my pant legs.

I told her the story. It wasn’t a dream. I told her.

Two bits of discouraging news from the radio between the Jefferson Airship retrospective and “Careless Whisper”: it’s 3.42 a.m. and minus nineteen outside. I’d been nurturing some hope that I might make it to the morning, if only to see the patterns of frost over the glass, the stark line of trees beyond. But it seems these small consolations are to be denied me.

Engelbert Humperdinck next. Always loved that name.

Please release me. Let me go…

The news comes on. The second item (after the day’s Middle Eastern death count) is a breaking story. One I only focus on halfway through the reception’s broken account.

“The son of author…street corner in Dryden, Ontario…taken to the local hospital to be checked over for any possible…unknown at this time…appeared unharmed, though a statement has not yet been released regarding information on his kidnappers’ identity…also apparently missing, and therefore not available for…unconfirmed initial reports that the boy has offered information which may lead to his father’s whereabouts…repeated their policy of not answering questions until they have followed…In sports, Leafs lose another close one…”

There’s to be a follow-up report a half-hour later. It gives me something to keep breathing for. Fighting sleep that isn’t sleep. Humming along to crackly patches of “Everybody Plays the Fool” and “Someday We’ll Be Together”.

Then the news again. This time around, the reception is good enough to get the facts down.

Sam Rush, son of the bestselling author, was discovered wandering alone on a residential street in Dryden, the next town along the Trans-Canada from Whitley. Early reports indicate that he appeared in good health, and has made a statement to authorities that may assist them in locating the boy’s father, who has also been recently designated a Missing Person. Police are now working to locate a farmhouse where the boy was kept, and are using geographic parameters he has provided regarding its location in relation to the stars. There are currently no leads as to the identity of the boy’s abductors as he was unable or unwilling to provide detailed physical descriptions. Parents are urged to monitor their children more closely than usual over the coming days, though they can be assured that the Rush investigation is now a top priority. The police spokesperson went out of his way to emphasize that, despite the boy’s statements, there is no evidence to support the contention that Sam Rush’s abduction and his father’s missing status are related.

There’s no mention of Ramsay. Nothing about Tim Earheart either, though the police have surely made a positive identification by this point. Soon, they’ll start pulling some of the connections together. But they’ll never find Angela and Len. I’m sure of this. They’re gone and won’t come back. With different names and faces they will slip across borders, shedding themselves as they go. Somewhere else, eventually, they will join another circle. And someone will start believing in the Sandman again.

The radio’s reception starts to fade. The batteries mostly used up to start with. She wanted me to hear the news, to let me know. But once I had, she wanted the silence to return.

And now, with a last rustle of static, it has.

Outside, the wind stills to nothing. The snow drifted up against the walls like breaking waves. Even the house holds its breath.

Sam is alive.

It’s this fact, this pain-killing knowledge, that allows me to let go.

I’ve been fighting harder than I knew. To be here for him. Just in case he found his way out of the storm. Instead, he is far away, in the care of others. I wish it were my arms that held him, my comfort that will send him off to sleep. No matter. We’ve had our bedtime stories. There will be my voice for him to hold on to.

Goodnight, son. Sweet dreams.

They may find me, of course. And maybe even before my breath has turned to crystal in my chest. The radio said they were looking for me, following the directions Sam gave them, the Norths and Wests and Easts he read from the stars. Odds are it will be too late to make any difference. And yet, even as I resign myself to the inevitable, there is a renewed struggle to stay here, in this moment, a thinking, remembering thing. Fighting for another minute, for the possibility of dawn. Of seeing Sam again.

There is even the time to dream of revenge. A plan to sell the house on Euclid, leave the city altogether and disappear with Sam, make ourselves safe. Then, a thousand miles away, I will set myself to work. To take something from Angela, the only thing that might matter to her. The Killing Circle. If I make it out of here, maybe I’ll write it myself. Stick a knife in her heart. Steal back the book she’s been assembling from the stories of the dead.

But these are only lullabye thoughts. The drifting weightlessness before the crash. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not striving for anything, not searching. No envy, unrequited admirations, the hollow yearning to be noticed. Not afraid.

Last thoughts?

There’s the notion I might have some kicking around, perhaps a lesson or two of the kind you find at the end of novels. Something affirming and buoyant. I’m sure I could come up with something if I had the time, but I don’t. Because here it comes: a wool blanket being pulled up over my shoulders, my head. Darkness. Blocking the light from the inside out. But before it takes me I surprise myself by laughing. A terrible, shaking, coughing mirth that echoes through the empty rooms of the farmhouse. A ghost sound. The laughter of a man without a story who sees that what has brought him here might have made a good one, if there was only someone else, one Dear Reader to tell it to.