Goodlow's Ghosts (12 page)

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.

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 down."

"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.

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 . . ."

Ryerson reached out, touched her hand. "Miss
Goodlow
," he began, but he had little idea how to continue. If he told her the truth—what he supposed was the truth, at any rate—she'd think he was nuts. He withdrew his hand. "Had you let this man into your house?"