It was five-thirty when I left the church, almost six-fifteen when I reached Grainger's place. He lived on a side street, in what seemed to be a university district. His own place was modest: two stories, clapboard siding, a porch with a lot of Victorian gingerbread. No lights. I parked on the other side of the street, then hauled out my trusty brolly and crossed over.
If anything, the rain was coming down harder, scratching the night with the grain of a very old photograph and spreading down the glistening street like fat in a pan. I ran up to the porch, my steps clumping. There was a fine bay window, its curtains drawn, but I could peer through a crack into a dark interior, lit only by the yellowish glow of a light on a side table. I felt sure he wasn't there, but knocked anyway, then rang the bell. Pressing my ear up to the glass, I listened to its buzz rattle in the emptiness within.
I went back to the car, dried my hands, lit up a cigarette.
Grainger wasn't here; so where could he be?
I worked it out. Despite his skill, he must have known, at the end, that I'd find out he was lying — because I'd told him
I intended speaking to Murdoch, and once I'd laid eyes on him, the truth would be obvious. Another small point: I hadn't mentioned the fact that Murdoch was in Montreal, so Grainger would have assumed I'd be seeing him almost at once; if he wanted to do something about it, he'd have to act fast. But what could he do? If he tried to run and hide, he couldn't expect to get very far; he was an old man, with a social position, and he would have made no preparations. He might try a friend's, a hotel, maybe a cottage, or even someplace more inaccessible; but it didn't make that much difference. I could go looking for him — but I could also just wait; eventually he'd have to come back. And I thought of that. Go back to hotel. Run a hot bath. Tomorrow, begin with the housekeeper… But I didn't like it. I could still taste that odor of fear in the back of my throat, and I didn't like the dark look of the house. So, though I didn't have much hope, I put the car into gear and headed back to the clinic: it was the only other place I could check right away. Slowly, I found my way through the maze of a strange city at night: one-way streets, illegal left turns, signs that were legible only once you were past them. Eventually, almost by accident, I found the right street. In the dark, and under two inches of water, it looked no better than it had this afternoon. Dirt lawns, fenced round with old pipe, were turning to mud, and the blue glow of TV sets seeped through dingy curtains. Pulling up in front of the clinic, I saw it was dark. I splashed up to the door. A sign, printed with Magic Marker, was pinned to it:
CLOSED TONITE
J PENNY.
I knocked anyway — there was no buzzer of course. I rattled the knob… nothing. I didn't like it. Places like this stayed open till all hours, and even after it officially closed, there'd be endless meetings to plot the revolution's next phase and usually someone who'd bed down on the couch. I looked again at the sign: its very presence indicated that such an early closing was out of the ordinary.
Frustrated, I stood there for a moment. But then, remembering the pregnant black woman in the waiting room, I stepped off the porch and walked around to the lane. Halfway along it, under a little peaked roof, was a side entrance: Dr. Charlie's old "surgery." It didn't seem very likely, but I told myself it was possible — a cot, a hot plate, a tin of baked beans — and so I put my head down and ran up the drive. Sheltered as I was by the clinic and the building next door, the rain wasn't so bad. I came up to the entrance. It was dark as a well. Cement steps led down. Feeling forward, I went down them, plunging from the last into ankle-deep water. It was very dark, especially under the umbrella — but I was damned if I'd put it down — and I groped ahead to the door. Which was shut. Locked. Padlocked… and when I pulled at the hasp, I knew it hadn't been opened in years. I waded back toward the steps… but that's when I heard someone come down the drive.
I stood still.
Grainger? Sharp and grinding, the steps came on quicker. And though Grainger was a spry old party, such steps couldn't be his. I pressed against the wall, and eased the umbrella shut. Coming closer, the steps paused… and then came forward again. And then stopped — at the top of the stairs. I held my breath. A toe, pivoting, scraped along asphalt. A second later, I heard a little snick and a flashlight came on. A narrow beam darted down, into my well. Found the door. Steadied against the lock… then winked out. It had missed me because of the angle. And then, as a yellow blotch pulsed in front of my eyes, the steps went away.
I waited a second, not quite sure which way they'd gone.
Cautiously, I edged up the stairs.
Staying in a crouch as I drew level with the drive, I looked back toward the street, but both the drive and the sidewalk were empty.
I stepped up, turning round and looking toward the back of the house.
Behind me, a car passed in the street; overhead, beyond the rain and the sound of the city, I heard the drone of an airplane. I stared into the darkness. Shadow folded in upon shadow, the rain swirling the night into tunnels and gyres; but there was no sign of anyone. I listened. Tires hissed. The plane grumbled away. I stepped forward. Rain sounds filled my ears: the metallic drumming of the drops on the flashing of the roof, a plopping drip from the eaves, the staccato splashing on asphalt… I stopped. I'd now reached the back of the house, where I'd sat this afternoon, talking with Grainger. I waited and listened. A downpipe emptied here with a gush and there was the softer sound of the rain on the grass of the garden. I took a single step forward. Now I could see the yard, overgrown with bushes and weeds. At the back was a high wooden wall, the back wall of a neighbor's shed or garage. A spade leaned against this, and a tipped-up wheelbarrow and a bicycle with only one wheel… all these objects being clearly visible in the long, distorted oblong of yellowish light spilling out from the back of the house.
I took two quick steps into the yard.
The grass came up to my knees; at once, my pants were soaked through. But now I could see the French doors at the back of Grainger's study. One of them was ajar, and a man, in a tan raincoat, was bending over the desk where Grainger had sat… It took me about five seconds to decide that this figure wasn't Brightman himself, but that was four seconds too long, for now he turned and saw me. He hesitated; I didn't move. And then, quite calmly, he stepped through the doors. As he did so, his body turned to one side and the light fell on his face. I recognized him at once: it was the man I'd seen in Harry Brightman's hall, the other man who wanted to know if Florence Raines had been black. He had a thin face, his teeth were pushed forward in his mouth, and his brush-cut hair had a reddish tint. In Brightman's hall, I'd seen him for no more than a second or two, but I had absolutely no doubt — it was the same man.
Did he know me?
I wasn't sure. He had a good look at me as he came through those doors, but nothing moved in his eyes. Perhaps, to him, it didn't make any difference: for he had a gun in his hand, and guns don't encourage distinctions. I froze at the sight of it. For a second, that's all I could see, and all I could hear was the beat of my heart, now drumming so hard it drowned out the rain.