But independent bookstores had been having a hard time. Most had either relocated to less-trendy areas, where the rent was more modest, or had simply gone out of business. These days, Queen Street West was home mostly to trendy cafes and bistros, although the rococo headquarters of one of Canada's broadcasting empires was located near the subway exit at University Avenue. There couldn't be more than three or four bookstores left, so Kyle decided to simply try them all.

He began with venerable Pages, on the north side. He looked around-unlike Becky, Zack was was in university, so he presumably probably did work on weekends, rather than during the week. But there was no sign of Zack's blond, rangy form. Still, Kyle went up to the cashier, a stunning East Indian woman with eight earrings. "h.e.l.lo," he said. in university, so he presumably probably did work on weekends, rather than during the week. But there was no sign of Zack's blond, rangy form. Still, Kyle went up to the cashier, a stunning East Indian woman with eight earrings. "h.e.l.lo," he said.

She smiled at him.

"Does Zack Malkus work here?"

"We've got a Zack Barboni," she said.

Kyle felt his eyes widening slightly When he'd been a kid, everyone had had normal names-David, Robert, John, Peter. The only Zack he'd ever heard of was the b.u.mbling Zachary Smith on the old TV series Lost in s.p.a.ce. Lost in s.p.a.ce. Now it seemed that every kid he ran into was a Zack or an Odin or a Wing. Now it seemed that every kid he ran into was a Zack or an Odin or a Wing.

"No, that's not him," said Kyle. "Thanks anyway."

He continued west. Panhandlers. .h.i.t him up for donations along the way; there'd been a time in his youth when panhandlers were so rare in Toronto that he could never bring himself to say no. But they'd become plentiful in downtown, although they always solicited with studied Canadian politeness. Kyle had perfected the straight-ahead Torontonian gaze: jaw set, never meeting the eyes of a beggar, but still making his head swing through a tiny arc of "no" to each request; it would be rude, after all, to completely ignore someone who was talking to you.

Toronto the Good, he thought, recalling an old advertising slogan. Although the beggars today were a mixed group, many were Native Canadians-what Kyle's father still called "Indians." In fact, Kyle couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a Native Canadian anywhere except begging on a street corner, although there were doubtless still many on reservations someplace. Several years ago, he'd had a couple of Natives in one of his cla.s.ses, sent there on a now-defunct government program, but he couldn't think of a single U of T faculty member-even, ironically, in Native Studies-who was a Canadian aborigine.

Kyle continued on until he came to Bakka. The store had started on Queen West in 1972, had moved away a quarter-century later, and now was back, not far from its original location. Kyle felt sure he'd have remembered-and that Becky would have mentioned it-if Zack worked there. Still . . .

Painted on the shop's plate-gla.s.s front window was the derivation of the store's name: Bakka: noun, myth.; in Fremen legend the weeper who mourns for all mankind.

Bakka must be working overtime these days, thought Kyle.

He entered the store and spoke to the bearded, elfin man behind the counter. But no Zack Malkus worked there, either.

Kyle continued to search. He was wearing a Tilley safari shirt and blue jeans-not much different from what he wore while teaching.

The next store was about a block farther along, on the south side of the street. Kyle waited for a red-and-white streetcar-recently converted to maglev travel-to hum quietly past, then made his way across.

This store was much more upscale than Bakka; someone had recently put a lot of money into renovating the old brownstone building that housed it, and the stone facade had been sand-blasted clean; most people drove skimmers these days, but many of the buildings still carried the grime of decades of automobile exhaust.

A chime sounded as Kyle entered. A dozen or so patrons were in the shop. Perhaps in response to the chime, a clerk appeared from behind a dark wooden bookcase.

It was Zack.

"Mis-Mister Graves," he said.

"h.e.l.lo, Zack."

"What are you you doing here?" He said it with venom, as if any reference to Kyle was distasteful. doing here?" He said it with venom, as if any reference to Kyle was distasteful.

"I need to talk to you."

Dismissively: "I'm working."

"I can see that. When's your break?"

"Not until noon."

Kyle did not look at his watch. "I'll wait."

"But-"

"I have to talk to you, Zack. You owe me that much."

The boy pursed his lips, thinking. Then he nodded.

Kyle did wait. Normally he liked browsing in bookshops-especially the kind with real paper volumes-but he was too nervous to concentrate today. He spent some time looking at an old copy of Colombo's Canadian Quotations, Colombo's Canadian Quotations, reading what people had said about family life. Colombo contended that the most famous Canadian quotation of all was McLuhan's "The medium is the message." That was likely true, but one that was uttered more frequently, even if it wasn't uniquely Canadian, was "My children hate me." reading what people had said about family life. Colombo contended that the most famous Canadian quotation of all was McLuhan's "The medium is the message." That was likely true, but one that was uttered more frequently, even if it wasn't uniquely Canadian, was "My children hate me."

There was still some time to kill. Kyle left the store. Next door was a poster shop. He went in and looked around; it was decorated all in chrome and black enamel. There were lots of Robert Bateman wildlife paintings. Some Group of Seven stuff. A series of prints by Jean-Pierre Normand. Photo portraits of current pop-music stars. Old movie posters-from Citizen Kane Citizen Kane to to The Fall of the Jedi. The Fall of the Jedi. Hundreds of holoposters of landscapes and s.p.a.cescapes and seascapes. Hundreds of holoposters of landscapes and s.p.a.cescapes and seascapes.

And Dali-Kyle had always liked Dali. There was "Persistence of Memory"-the one with the melting watches. And "The Sacrament of the Last Supper." And- Say, that one would be great for his students. "Christus Hypercubus." It had been years since he'd seen it anywhere, and it sure would liven up the lab.

He'd doubtless take some flak for hanging a picture with religious overtones, but what the heck. Kyle found the slot that had rolled-up copies of the poster in it and took one up to the cashier, a small Eastern European man.

"Thirty-five ninety-five," said the clerk. "Plus plus plus." Plus PST, GST, and NST-Canadians were the most taxed people in the world.

Kyle handed over his SmartCash card. The clerk placed it in the reader, and the total was deleted from the chip on the card. The clerk then wrapped a small bag around the poster tube and handed it to Kyle.

Kyle headed back to the bookstore. A few minutes later, Zack's break came.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" asked Kyle.

Zack looked as though he was still very reluctant, but after a moment he said, "The office?" Kyle nodded, and Zack led him into the back room, which seemed to be more a storage facility than anything that might justly be termed an office. Zack closed the door behind them. Rickety bookcases and two beat-up wooden desks filled the s.p.a.ce. No money had been spent upgrading this part of the store; outward appearances were everything.

Zack offered Kyle the single chair, but Kyle shook his head. Zack sat down. Kyle leaned against a bookcase, which shifted slightly. He backed off, not wanting it to come toppling down on him; he'd had enough of that lately.

"Zack, I love Becky" said Kyle.

"No one," said Zack firmly "who loved her could do what you did." He hesitated for a moment, as if wondering whether to push his luck. But then, with the righteousness of the young, he added, "You sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Kyle felt like hauling back and hitting the kid. "I didn't do anything. I'd never hurt her."

"You did did hurt her. She can't . . ." hurt her. She can't . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing."

But Kyle had learned a lesson or two from Cheetah. "Tell me."

Zack seemed to consider, then, finally, he just blurted it out. "She can't even have s.e.x anymore."

Kyle felt his heart jump. Of course Becky was s.e.xually active; she was nineteen, for Pete's sake. Still, although he'd suspected it, he didn't like hearing about it.

"I never touched her inappropriately. Never."

"She wouldn't like me talking to you."

"d.a.m.n it, Zack, my family is being torn apart. I need your help."

Sneering now: "That's not what you said Thursday night. You said it was a family matter. You said I had no place there."

"Becky won't talk to me. I need you to intercede."

"What? Tell her that you didn't do it? She knows knows you did it." you did it."

"I can prove prove that I didn't do it. That's why I came here. I want you to agree to come by the university." that I didn't do it. That's why I came here. I want you to agree to come by the university."

Zack, who was wearing a Ryerson T-shirt, bristled; Kyle knew that those who attended Toronto's other two universities hated the way U of T types always referred to it as the the university. "Why?" asked Zack. university. "Why?" asked Zack.

"They teach forensics at U of T," said Kyle. "We've got a polygraph lab, and I know a guy who works there. He's been an expert witness in hundreds of cases. I want you to come to that lab, and I'll have myself hooked up to a lie detector. I'll let you ask me any questions you want about this topic, and you'll see that I'm telling the truth. I didn't hurt Becky-I couldn't hurt her. You'll see see that that's true." that that's true."

"You could get your friend to rig the test."

"We can have the test done somewhere else, then. You name the lab; I'll pay for it. Then, once you know the truth, maybe you can help me get through to Becky."

"A pathological liar can beat a lie detector."

Kyle's face went flush. He surged forward, grabbed the boy's shirtfront. But then he backed off, spreading his arms, palms face out. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry." He fought to calm down. "I tell you, I'm innocent. Why won't you let me prove it?"

Zack's face was flush now; adrenaline must have surged through him when he thought Kyle was going to rough him up. "I don't need you to take a test," he said, his voice ragged. "Becky told me what you did. She's never lied to me."

Of course she has, thought Kyle. People lie to other people all the time. "I didn't do this," he said again.

Zack shook his head. "You don't know the kinds of problems Becky had. She's getting better now, though. She cried for hours after we left your place on Thursday, but she's a lot better."

"But, Zack, you know know that Becky and I have lived apart for almost a year now. If I'd really been doing something wrong, surely she would have left earlier, or at least have said something as soon as she got out of the house. Why on earth-" that Becky and I have lived apart for almost a year now. If I'd really been doing something wrong, surely she would have left earlier, or at least have said something as soon as she got out of the house. Why on earth-"

"You think this is easy to talk about? Her therapist says-"

"Therapist?" Kyle felt as if he'd been struck. His own daughter was in therapy. Why the f.u.c.k didn't he know this? "What the h.e.l.l was she in therapy for?"

Zack made a face indicating the answer was obvious.

"What's the therapist's name? If I can't convince you, maybe I can convince him."

"I . . . don't know."

"You're lying."

But the accusation just made Zack more determined. "I'm not. I don't know."

"How did she find this therapist?"

Zack shrugged a little. "It was the same one her older sister had used."

"Mary?" Kyle staggered backward, b.u.mping into the other wooden desk. There was a half-eaten donut sitting on a napkin on its corner; it fell to the floor, crumbling in two. "Mary was in therapy, too?"

"Of course she was. Who can blame her, after what you did to her?"

"I didn't do anything anything to Mary. And I didn't do anything to Becky, either." to Mary. And I didn't do anything to Becky, either."

"Now who's lying?" said Zack.

"I'm not-" He paused, trying to get his voice under control. "d.a.m.n it, Zack. G.o.d f.u.c.king d.a.m.n it. You He paused, trying to get his voice under control. "d.a.m.n it, Zack. G.o.d f.u.c.king d.a.m.n it. You are are in this with her. The two of you are going to file a lawsuit, aren't you?" in this with her. The two of you are going to file a lawsuit, aren't you?"

"Becky doesn't want your money," Zack said. "She just wants peace; she just wants closure."

"Closure? What the f.u.c.k kind of word is that? Is that what her therapist told her this was all about? f.u.c.king What the f.u.c.k kind of word is that? Is that what her therapist told her this was all about? f.u.c.king closure?" closure?"

Zack stood up. "Mr. Graves, go home. And for G.o.d's sake, get to a therapist yourself."

Kyle stormed out of the office, through the retail area, and out into the h.e.l.lish heat of the summer day.

4.

Kyle remembered the day he'd learned that Heather was pregnant with their first child, Mary.

It had come as a complete shock. They'd been living together for about a year, sharing an apartment in St. Jamestown with a few hundred c.o.c.kroaches. Kyle was in the second year of his master's in computer science; Heather was just starting her master's in psychology. They were in love-no doubt-and had talked about building a life together. But Kyle and Heather both knew they should each go somewhere other than U of T for their doctorates. Not that U of T wasn't a fine place for grad school; indeed, if it really did have any claim to that "Harvard of the North" label, it was because of its graduate studies. But having all three degrees from the same inst.i.tution would be an automatic red flag in future job interviews.

Then, suddenly, Heather was pregnant.

And they'd had tough decisions to make.

They'd talked about abortion. Although they did eventually want children, this was without doubt an unplanned pregnancy.

But . . .

But, h.e.l.l, when would would be the right time? be the right time?

Not while they were finishing their masters' degrees, of course.

And certainly not while doing their doctorates.

And, well, the starting salaries for a.s.sociate professors were abysmal-Heather had already decided that an academic life was what she wanted, and Kyle, who didn't enjoy stressful situations, was leaning toward that as well, rather than the high-pressure world of commercial computing.

And then of course they wouldn't really be secure until at least one of them had tenure.