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I know I should have delivered this message in person, but I don't dare. I'm an old woman and if I can't find the answers I seek, the least I can do is preserve what little time I have left. Patrick Shanahan has been here. He didn't get what he wanted, but he won't give up so easily. You need to know that--
The ink smeared there, the pen sliding across the page. Then, below it, a hastily added line, the handwriting cramped and rushed.
You are the key to the ritual and Patrick will say--do--anything to get to--
The note ended there.
We called Jeremy. After much discussion, he agreed Clay and I should push on and still visit Zoe's contact. He'd bring Jaime over to the bookstore, meet up with Antonio and Nick and see whether Jaime could figure out what had happened to Anita.
Zoe led us along a shortcut behind a three-story walkup. Clay walked behind, on the lookout for rats. As we wove through the bags of garbage, steaming in the midday heat, I clapped my hand over my mouth and nose.
"Sorry," Zoe said. "That must smell even worse to you. It'll be better inside." She paused. "Well, 'better' might not be the word. But it won't smell of garbage. Will you be okay?"
I nodded. We came out on a street that straddled Cabbagetown and Regent Park. Like the portal street, this one was lined with Victorian homes, but these houses were like withered old ladies, traces of their former beauty still visible, but only if you strained to see past the signs of deterioration and decay.
Good bones, a Realtor would say. Farther down the road, the process of gentrification had already begun, putting a pretty face on the old gals to entice urban professionals who dreamed of owning a historic home without the inconvenience of hissing steam radiators and push-button lights. Here, though, no such process had begun. These old gals sat tight, comfortable in their squalor and decay, glaring down the road at their uppity neighbors.
"Here," Zoe said, swinging open a rusted gate that led into a yard of weeds.
"So this woman...it's a woman, right?" I said as we trekked through the yard.
"Umm, we think so."
Zoe led us to the back of the house. She went to move an overloaded trash bin out of the way. Clay reached around and gave it a heave.
"Watch your arm," I said.
Zoe slid into the space left by the bin.
"So this...woman," I said. "What is she?"
Zoe knelt in front of a locked hatch. "We think she might be a clairvoyant. She seems to have some clairvoyant abilities, and the madness certainly fits that profile."
"Madness?"
Clay shrugged at me, as if to say, after dimensional portals, zombie servants and half-demon serial killers, he wouldn't have been surprised if Zoe was leading us down a hole to visit a white rabbit.
"Clairvoyants," I continued. "They can't see the future, right? More...lateral sight. Seeing things that are happening in other places right now."
"You got it." She undid the first combination lock on the hatch.
"And what they see drives them crazy. But...how crazy are we talking?"
Clay looked at me. "How crazy? They can't figure out her gender, darling."
"Okay, stupid question. Does she have a name?"
Zoe opened the second lock. "I'm sure she did. Once. We call her Tee. It's--" Her gaze dropped with her voice, as if embarrassed. "It's an abbreviation. Not my idea."
The wooden hatch door was at least two feet by three, and when she tugged at it, she had to dig in her heels, her tiny frame straining with the effort. Clay leaned in and yanked it open.
"Thanks, Professor. Quite the southern gentleman today, aren't you?"
She tried to sound like her usual jaunty self, but didn't succeed.
A narrow set of stairs led down.
"She--Tee has the basement apartment?" I said.
