The Killing Circle. Andrew Pyper

      

       The Killing Circle

      ANDREW PYPER

      

       For Heidi

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Prologues

PART ONE The Kensington Circle

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

       9

       10

       11

       12

       PART TWO The Sandman

       13

       14

       15

       16

       17

       PART THREE Story Thieves

       18

       19

       20

       21

       22

       23

       24

       25

       26

       27

       28

       29

       PART FOUR The Terrible Man Who Does Terrible Things

       30

       31

       32

       33

       34

       35

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       By the same author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       LABOUR DAY, 2007

      I didn’t know my son could tell directions from the stars.

       Corona Austrina. Lyra. Delphinus.

      Sam leaves noseprints on the passenger window as we highway out of the city, reciting the constellations and whispering "South” and "East” and "North” with each turn I make.

      "Where’d you learn that?"

      He gives me the same look as when I came into his room a couple nights ago and found him slingshooting a platoon of plastic Marines, one by one, on to the neighbour’s roof. "I’m a terrorist,” he had answered when asked what he thought he was doing.

      "Learn what?"

      "The stars."

      "Books."

      "Which books?"

      "Just books."

      With Sam I know I’ll get no further than this. It’s because both of us are readers. Not by passion necessarily, but by character. Observers. Critics. Interpreters. Readers of books (most recently the later, furious Philip Roth for me, and Robinson Crusoe, told in bedtime snippets, for Sam). But also comics, travel brochures, bathroom-stall graffiti, owner’s manuals, cereal-box recipes. The material doesn’t matter. Reading is how we translate the world into a language we can at least partly understand.

      "North,” Sam says, his nose returned to the glass.

      The two of us peer at the slab of shadow at the top of the rise. A square monolith jutting out of an Ontario corn field like the last remnant of an ancient wall.

      "Mus-tang Drive-in. End of Sea-son. La-bour Day dusk-’til-dawn,” Sam reads as we pass the sign.

      He leans forward to study the neon cowboy on a bucking bronco that is the Mustang’s beacon, directing us in from the night roads.

      "I’ve been here before,” he says.

      "You