“What’s tonight?”

I could tell by Jeremy’s expression that he didn’t know.

“Well,” he said finally. “Jaime did suggest a séance-”

“Great. With whom?”

“She wants to attempt to contact the people from Cabbagetown who went through that portal, to make sure they’re still there and are all right.”

“Oh. I guess that would be something…”

“Yeah,” Clay said, pitching our muffin wrappers into the trash across the room. “A waste of time.”

“I think her real goal is to see whether there’s anyone else in there,” Jeremy said.

“Now that’s a good idea.”

Jeremy looked at me. “Asking Jaime to conduct a difficult séance so she can make the acquaintance of a notorious serial killer?”

I crossed the room and grabbed my half-finished orange juice from Clay before he dumped it. “But it would tell us how true Matthew Hull’s story is.”

“Perhaps, but I’m hoping to get a better sense of that this afternoon.”

For lunch, we met up with Jaime and walked over to the mall. Just through the doors was a newsstand. The headline on one paper caught my eye: KILLER CHOLERA? RAM-PAGING RATS?

“Killer?” I said, veering toward the papers. “Has it killed-?”

“No,” Clay said, snagging my arm. “Someone in a nursing home died yesterday, but the other papers say it wasn’t related.”

“What about the rampaging rats? Have they-?”

“Attacked someone and torn them to shreds?” Clay gave me a look. “I told you we watch too many horror movies. But if you want to go home…”

“No. Jeremy’s right. Avoid tap water and rats. I can handle that.”

We headed down to the food court. The mall was so quiet you could hear Jaime’s heels clicking as we walked down the corridor.

We bought lunch at the little market where Jeremy had bought my breakfast earlier. I suggested we take it outside to Trinity Square, but Clay headed for a forlorn patch of empty tables. I shook my head to Jaime, and followed.

“What’s that?” I said, seeing Clay pick up a leaflet from a table.

When he didn’t answer, I grabbed one from another table. On the poorly printed leaflet, someone had listed the recent problems plaguing the city, and likened them to the signs of the Apocalypse, entreating the reader to make his peace with God, because the end was near.

“What bullshit,” Clay said, snatching my leaflet and balling it up. “Did they even bother to read Revelations? Killer rats as one of the signs?”

He waved us to the mall corridor, apparently having changed his mind about eating indoors. We walked down the other side of the mall, cruelly raising thehopes of a fresh batch of bored sales clerks. As we passed one kiosk, I noticed a hastily hand-drawn sign.

“Home filtration systems,” I read. “Guaranteed to kill cholera, E. coli and all other waterborne pests. Oh, and they have animal repellent spray for rats. Figures. Start an apocalypse, someone else cashes in.”

“You should ask for your share,” Jaime said.

“No kidding. You know what I really feel like doing, though? Climbing to the top of the CN Tower, busting out a window and shouting ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I apologize unreservedly.’ ”

Jaime laughed. “And you hereby undertake not to repeat any such apocalyptic actions at any time in the future?”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Clay said. “I squashed the mosquito.”

“Kill a bug, launch the apocalypse,” Jaime said. “Now that’s serious karma.”

“I had a backlog,” Clay said. “Now let’s move. We’re starting to attract attention.”

“Let’s sit over there in the shade,” Jaime said. “By the waterfall.”

To call the water flowing into the concrete pond to our right a “waterfall” was being generous. It was a spout coming out of a wall, with a constant high-pressurized rush of water. It was supposed to be an industrial-style fountain, but every time I saw it, I couldn’t help but suspect that the building’s owners had found an ingenious way to dispose of waste water and call it art.

We sat on a bench overlooking a vast empty patch of weeds and dead grass, a solitary squirrel cavorting through it.

“What the hell is that?” Clay said.

I squinted at the sign, which showed barefooted people happily wending their way through a large maze of green grass.

“A labyrinth,” I said. “Looks like they forgot to water it. And weed it. And…pretty much do anything at all with it.”

“Where’s the labyrinth part?”

“See those dark paths, where the grass is browner than the rest?”

Clay shook his head. “And I thought our yard maintenance was bad.”

“That squirrel’s having a blast, though,” Jaime said, laughing through her veggie wrap. She chewed, then swallowed and said, “So about tonight…I talked to Jeremy about a séance-”

My cell phone rang.

“Nick?” Clay asked as I checked the call display.

“Anita Barrington.”

He snorted. “Probably got another story for us. Tell her-”

I motioned him to silence as I answered.

Yes, Anita had more information for us. When I tried to get her to relate over the phone, though, she insisted it wasn’t safe.