FOURTEEN
Ryerson said to Jenny Goodlow, over the telephone, "I have made contact with your brother."
"Are you saying that my brother is alive?"
"No, I'm not."
A pause. Then, "You're saying that he's not alive, but that you've made contact with him." It was a statement, not a question.
"I'm saying that I've had contact with him. We've spoken. I've seen him, after a fashion."
"You're being very cryptic, Mr. Biergarten."
"Of necessity. You made it clear how you feel about what I do, Miss Goodlow."
"I made it clear how I feel about what you say you do. My threshold of willing suspension of disbelief is quite high."
Ryerson smiled.
"You understood that, I assume?" Jenny Goodlow asked.
"Yes. It's a literary phrase, am I right?"
She sighed. "Mr. Biergarten, we appear to be playing games with each other."
"If we are, then I wasn't aware of it. I called as a courtesy to say that I've had contact with your brother. I'm willing to elaborate, if you'd like."
Silence. He waited for a response from her. After half a minute, he heard the sharp click of the phone being hung up.
~ * ~
Guy Squires realized with grim and fearful fascination that the air in this little apartment was growing very stale and that he would not for long be able to breathe it.
He was sitting against a wall. The dark-eyed and beguiling brunette was still sitting cross-legged on the bare wood floor between him and the door, and she was still reading aloud from the bad novel she had been reading from for the past several hours. She was staring at him as she read; she had yet to look at her book.
Guy Squires thought, again, of trying to talk to her. He had tried talking to her a number of times, but she had simply continued reading to him and staring at him. He had pleaded with her to let him go, had told her that he was the father of twin baby girls—it was a lie—and that his wife was ill and in the hospital—also a lie. His pleas had had no effect.
Perhaps the truth.
"I lied to you," he told her, and felt very good and bold for saying it. Surely it would impress her.
She did not react.
For half a second—barely long enough for him to realize it—she was gone and he was the only one in the apartment.
But then she was back, and he went on, "I don't read. I haven't"—he fought for breath as the air seemed to grow stale—"read anything in years. Not since"—another hard-won breath—"I was in high school. And then only what was necessary."
She continued reading: "'He lifted the room-sized vampire clear off the floor,'" she read, "'and blood poured over him like wine at a bachelor's party…’"
And Guy Squires continued to plead with her, as the oxygen in the room seemed to dissipate, "I am only a . . . man who likes . . . women—"
"'And the blood turned to putrescence and then to dust and then to nothing, for it had come from nothing, and always had been nothing—'" She vanished again. Longer. But now someone took her place. Another woman. Blond, thin.
"Huh?" said Guy Squires.
The thin, blond woman vanished, replaced by the beguiling woman with the brown eyes, and Guy Squires yelled, "Listen to me, goddammit!" And when she merely continued reading and staring at him, he pushed himself painfully to his feet, lurched toward her, and threw himself past her, toward the doorway. He had expected her to reach out, as she had before, and effortlessly toss him back to where he had been. But she did nothing. She continued reading.
Then Guy Squires was at the door, and he threw it open, looked back, saw the thin, blond woman again, and the beguiling, brown-eyed woman, too, in the same space that the blond woman inhabited.
"Jesus Christ!" he breathed, and within a minute, he was out of the building and down the street.
~ * ~
The early morning air was cool, dark, and moist, and Ryerson wondered for only a moment why he had awakened so abruptly.
He glanced about the bedroom. The tall, narrow windows bore the first blush of morning. He saw little of the rest of the room, only vague lumps that were its furnishings.
"Sam?" Ryerson whispered.
He heard, "I got stuck, Mr. Biergarten." The voice came from near the door. Ryerson looked. He saw darkness.
The voice—not the voice that Ryerson had come to associate with Sam Goodlow; it was sexless, neutral—continued, "I got stuck there. At that place. Where the asshole took us."
"Lutz?"
"Yes. Lutz."
"Stuck how, Sam?"
"Stuck, stuck. Where could I toe, go?" The voice was losing some of its neutrality; it was becoming Sam Goodlow's lazy tenor. At the same time, Ryerson could see a tall, beige shape emerging from the darkness. It fattened, like a cocoon forming. "That's a hell of a space, that place," Sam continued. "You didn't know, you couldn't see. I could see.”
"What could you see?"
"More than you, for sure. It's my world, after all, the fall, that place, place. Lots of hunger and joy and play, and this and that, and bric-a-brac."
"Can you tell me about it, Sam?"
"Tell you what? What you didn't see and couldn't know? I don't know what I saw. I've never seen it before. What do I compare it to? A spring play, a summer's day, feet of clay. Sometimes I believe that I'm alive, Mr. Biergarten. I get scared and I believe that I'm alive and that I was never dead."
"I understand that, Sam."
"You say you do."
"But I do. I honestly do."
"You're a damned presumptuous son of a bitch, Ryerson." It was the woman's voice again. "You presume to tell me, and who can tell me?" A pause. "I saw what you didn't see and couldn't know, unless you were me, or were like me." Sam's lazy tenor emerged once more. "I can't get it right, nothing, anything, something, even squeaking, and I want to get it right, Mr. Biergarten."
"Do you mean you can't get the voice right, Sam?"
"Sometimes I believe that I am alive, and there I am, alive, hell, I feel ... pain, I have red snakes, headaches, and my stomach growls. And I don't remember being dead. How would I, if I believe that I'm alive. It would be a kind of cosmic recognition, contradiction, wouldn't it? Do you have a Lincoln Town Car, Mr. Biergarten?"
The abrupt change of conversational direction took Ryerson by surprise. After a moment, he said, "No. I have a Woody. You were riding in it, remember?"
"I remember a Lincoln Town Car. Big, fat mother of a car. I'm glad you don't own one. I don't know anyone who does."
"Sam, I sense your confusion—"
The mannish beige form near the door was gone. Ryerson turned on his bedside lamp. He looked frantically about the room. It was empty.
Creosote, asleep at the foot of the bed, awoke and gurgled at him.
~ * ~
Stevie Lutz was exhausted. It confused her.
Here was the past, her past, playing out for her. Entertaining her. Re-creating itself for her as if it were playdough and she was able to work magic with her fingers.
Here, at her bidding and control, was her girlhood home, her little dog, the pond she swam in.
Here she was. Twelve years old, swaggering, cocky.
So much of the past.
And so much exhaustion. Down deep. Into the soul. Exhaustion that took her breath away.
As the sad, gray mist swirled around the house and drew steadily closer, slowly but inexorably obliterating her past.
FIFTEEN
Matthew Peters, who had been vacuuming on the first floor of the town house, stuck his head into Ryerson's office and said, "Mr. Biergarten, someone to see you."
"Who is it?" Ryerson asked.
"He wouldn't give me his name. I'll ask again, if you'd like. He says you know him."
Ryerson sighed. "Where is he? Downstairs?"
Matthew nodded. "He's waiting at the front door, actually."
Ryerson considered a moment, then said, "Go ahead and let him in, Matthew. I'll be right d
own."
"Sure," Matthew said.
Ryerson went to a window that overlooked the front porch. He peered out, saw, beneath the small porch roof, a gray suit sleeve, a hand, a black oxford wing tip. He went downstairs.
Matthew, waiting in the hallway, gestured toward the Living room.
Ryerson went in.
The man in the gray suit was standing near the fireplace. He smiled cordially as Ryerson entered the room. He was tall, athletically built, and he sported a nicely trimmed blond beard and mustache. His vaguely thinning hair was blond and his eyes were a striking pale blue. He was a very good-looking man and seemed, even standing quietly, to be the kind of man who could command much respect.
Ryerson strode forward and offered his hand: "I'm Ryerson Biergarten. Mr. Peters said you wanted to see me?"
The man shook Ryerson's hand firmly. "Yes, Mr. Biergarten. I have a problem, and I believe you can help me solve it. My name's Sam Goodlow."
~ * ~
Ryerson let go of the man's hand. "No you aren't," he said.
The man's cordial smile faded. He looked confused, disappointed. "But I know who I am, Mr. Biergarten," he protested.
Ryerson shook his head. "I've met Sam Goodlow. I know him."
"But you and I have never met before." The man's smile returned; now, however, he looked bemused, as if Ryerson were playing a game with him. "Look here," the man said, "I can prove who I am." He reached into his suitjacket pocket, produced a wallet, opened it, looked inside. Again he appeared confused. "Good Lord, someone's stolen everything from my wallet. It's empty. There's absolutely nothing in it." He held the wallet open for Ryerson to look. "See. Nothing." He peered into the wallet's several compartments; he was clearly upset. "I don't know how this could have happened. I didn't leave it anywhere. I came right here from my office and I know that I had money then because I stopped to make a telephone call at a public phone, and I needed change ..." He rifled through the wallet. "Dammit to hell, this is incredible, a man's personal belongings aren't safe even on his own body—"
Ryerson, seeing the man's obvious and sincere distress, stepped forward and put his hand on the man's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.
The man lurched away from Ryerson's hand. "Who are you touching? Why do you want to put your hand on me?" He was very angry.
And, all at once, Ryerson realized what was happening. "I'm sorry," he said. He stared at the man for a couple of seconds, then added, "I believe we have much to discuss."
"You aren't going to touch me again, are you?" the man pleaded. His words were in stark contrast to his distinguished good looks; they were words, and tone, that could elicit only pity and confusion.
"Perhaps we could go up to my office," Ryerson suggested. "There are some things you need to be made aware of, Mr. Goodlow."
~ * ~
The woman who called herself Violet McCartle said, "Then you have indeed taken care of the problem? It's not something that I have to be concerned with anymore?"
The big man hesitated before answering. He was a lousy liar, and he knew it. He said, "I did what you told me to do. There is no more problem."
"And if the bank's real-estate inspectors want to come through, then I won't be made to suffer an . . . embarrassment?"
Another hesitation. The big man was amazed that the woman hadn't caught onto his lie. "When are they coming through?" he asked.
"They have made no appointment. When I have a buyer for this mausoleum"—she smiled at her grim joke—"then they'll come through. I must tell you, and I'm sure you're aware of this, that I do not countenance lying. If I were to go up there now and find that you have indeed lied to me, you know how badly it would go for you. Not only would you be out of employment, you would be in very deep trouble with some extremely unpleasant people. I wouldn't want that for you."
He said, "I swear I'm telling the truth."
"Of course you are. You're not a complete idiot."
He bristled. "Someday, I'm going to—" He stopped.
"You're going to what?" she taunted. "Murder me? Bash my head in? Run me over with that ugly car? You like doing that sort of thing, don't you?" She smiled. "I don't think you'll touch me, though. And I'll tell you why. Because I am simply much smarter than you, and in this world, smart people are in control. I control you, and you know it."
He said nothing.
~ * ~
Ryerson Biergarten said to the blond man in the gray suit—who stood expectantly in front of the desk while Ryerson, who was seated, cradled Creosote in his arms and idly scratched the dog behind the ears—"I'm sure you believe you are who you say you are. But the sad fact is"—a pause for effect—"you aren't."
The blond man looked uncomprehendingly at Ryerson.
Ryerson went on, "This is very hard to understand," Creosote squirmed so Ryerson could scratch him lower, around his neck, "But you believe you are . . . one of us—"
"Oh, that's very cryptic," said the blond man. "If there's something you want me to know, then simply spit it out."
But Ryerson couldn't spit it out. How could he? This man standing expectantly in front of his desk was convinced that he was alive. ("Sometimes," Sam Goodlow had told him, "I feel like I'm alive. And I believe it.") Ryerson put Creosote on the floor, leaned forward over the desk, clasped his hands. "What is it that you wanted to see me about, Mr. Goodlow?"
The man smiled broadly. "Yes, now that's better." He glanced about the office, nodded at a straight chair against the wall to his right. "Can I bring that over?"
"Of course."
The man brought the chair over, sat in it, and crossed his arms at his chest. "I have a job for you, Mr. Biergarten. Someone's following me. I don't know who, or why, but I don't like to be followed. Who would? Every time I turn around, there he is. Big fellow. Awkward looking—oafish looking, really. Red hair, unkempt. My God, the man has the face of an infant, but he's very threatening. I mean by that that he looks threatening, Mr. Biergarten. Do you understand?"
Ryerson nodded grimly. "Yes, Mr. Goodlow. I'm afraid that I do."
The man gave Ryerson a quick, quizzical look, then hurried on, "He drives a large car. A fat car. I believe that it's a Lincoln. Every time I turn around, there it is, and there he is. It's very unnerving. Now I know that you are what's called a psychic detective, and I know that this sort of job is not really in your area of expertise, but I feel that you would be a great help to me, nonetheless."
"You may be right."
"Of course I am. I'm a good judge of people, Mr. Biergarten, and I have the clear idea that this is something you could sink your teeth into. Am I right?"
"I already have."
"I'm sure of it. I can see it in your eyes." He stood abruptly, bent over the desk, offered Ryerson his hand. Ryerson stood, shook his hand.
The man said, "I have other business for now, Mr. Biergarten. But I'll be in touch."
"I'm looking forward to it," Ryerson said.
SIXTEEN
Jack Lutz watched as his wife moved absently about their living room.
It was a big living room. They had bought the house thinking that such a large living room would be a good place to entertain. It was furnished tastefully, in muted shades of brown, gray, and beige, and there was just enough chrome that it did not shock the eye.
Stevie Lutz moved haltingly in this room, through the tasteful furnishings, into the walls, and then out again, and the expression on her face was, impossibly, one of confusion and sleep at the same time, as if she were suffering under some great inner turmoil, or had suddenly gone blind, but was not yet quite aware of it.
Jack Lutz had called to her repeatedly, of course, but it had become clear that she could not hear him, or would not hear him, so he had merely watched her.
He reached for her once, but his fingers went into her stomach without touching her, and that made him confused and fearful, so he did not try to do it again.
His lawyer had called just before Stevie's appearance in the
living room. The police, his lawyer said, were on their way over to arrest Lutz in connection with Stevie's disappearance.
Lutz thought that when they arrived he would show them his wife, here, in the living room, and it would prove to them that she was alive, at least. He had no idea what might happen then.
~ * ~
"I'm sorry I hung up on you, Mr. Biergarten," Jenny Goodlow said at Ryerson's front door. She smiled an apology; Ryerson thought it was a very attractive and sincere smile, and he realized that in their two admittedly brief encounters, it was the first time he had seen it.
He stepped to one side, invited her into the town house, and led her to the living room, where he offered her a seat near the fireplace. She sat.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked.
"I don't drink," she said. "I used to, but not anymore." Another smile, this one a bit edgy.
Creosote pranced into the room and leaped into Ryerson's arms. It was a good jump, almost five feet, and Jenny Goodlow was apparently impressed.
"He certainly loves you, doesn't he, Mr. Biergarten," she said.
Ryerson asked her to call him Rye, she nodded, and he went on, "An ugly little dog, I know, but a real sweetheart."
Jenny nodded again, attempted another smile, but it did not work well. She shook her head, sighed. "Someone who said he was my brother came to see me."
Ryerson sat in a club chair nearby and put Creosote on the floor. "Was it a blond man? Tall, good-looking? Nicely trimmed beard?"
She shook her head. "No. This man was dark haired. Average height. He was good-looking, yes. But he had no beard. He looked . . . Mediterranean. Italian. He even had an accent. It wasn't an Italian accent; I've never heard an accent like it before." She shook her head again. Creosote came over and looked up at her. She grinned and tentatively touched the top of the dog's head.
"He doesn't bite," Ryerson said. "I don't think he can bite with that flat snout."
She scratched Creosote under the chin. She said, "This man wasn't my brother, of course. But he . . . knew things, Mr. Biergarten. You know, the kind of things that only brothers could know. It was very unnerving. I knew he wasn't my brother, of course, but I began to . . . doubt myself, I guess . . ."
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