The shot cut to young, blond Sandi Hackman-whom Jack Youngman had ogled at the Kodak pool. She opened her purse to reveal a can of Mace inside and next to it what looked like a Swiss Army knife. She grinned threateningly; "If he wants me, he'll have to get past these! "
"And so," Mark Wolf continued, "the tension mounts. For nearly two weeks, The Park has been quiet, and there is some evidence that things are returning to normal. However, many people see each day that passes without a new atrocity as something of a blessing; these people are convinced that we haven't seen the last of The Park Werewolf.
"They ask, 'How will we slide into May?' Because tomorrow, April twenty-ninth, "-a pause for effect-"the moon will be full!"
Greta Lynch said to Doug Miller, "Do you miss him?"
"Miss who?" Miller asked from behind his desk.
"Walt." A pause. "I kind of miss him."
"Why the hell would you miss that crud?" Miller asked. "I mean, I'm sorry he's dead and everything-I'm sorry, especially, that he had to die like that-"
"You can be incredibly callous sometimes, Doug," Greta said. "He was another human being, after all."
Miller interrupted with a guffaw.
"And he had his good points," Greta said.
"Oh? Like what?"
She said nothing for a few moments, seemed to be in thought. Then, "Well, like-he never made a pass at me, for one."
This obviously astounded Miller. "Never?"
She shook her head. "Not once." A pause. "Not like him."
"Him?"
"Yes," Greta said. "Roger." Roger Crimm was the new manager at Emulsion Technology; he'd been called in from Syracuse to take Walt Morgan's place until someone permanent was found to fill the vacancy.
"He makes passes at you, Greta?" Miller's lips got suddenly moist.
"I'm sorry I mentioned it; this isn't some kind of soap opera, Doug."
He shrugged. "Sure it is." He grinned. "Life's a soap opera. Sometimes it's a pretty… grisly soap opera-"
"What in the hell are you talking about?"
His grin softened; he tilted his head quickly to one side in a clear effort to dismiss her question. "Nothing." He hesitated. "I made a reservation at The Manhattan. For Friday, eight o'clock."
She nodded slowly. "Good. I hope you enjoy yourself."
He shook his head. "No. We'll enjoy ourselves, Greta. You and me."
Again she shook her head. She stood, shook her head again. "No. I like to be asked, Doug.”
“So, I'm asking."
"The answer's still `no,' " she said, and left the office quickly.
Miller called after her, "I was going to say it's nice to have you back," because she'd been out ("sick," she'd claimed; "some kind of flu") since April 18, "but now," Miller concluded, "I'm not so sure?"
Ryerson said to Tom McCabe, "You hadn't encountered this case before, then?" They were at a restaurant called Foggy's Notion on Rochester's fashionable and self-important Park Avenue. McCabe loved the place; Ryerson thought, secretly, that it was starkly pretentious, that if the owners really had to mix decors, they could have mixed something other than Art Deco, late Victorian, and mid-twentieth-century junk. Behind them, the rear end of a 1960 black Cadillac jutted from the wall; the trunk lid was open and the trunk itself had been made into a small salad bar. The waiters and waitresses were nicely scrubbed young men and women in their early twenties; the men were dressed as members of a barbershop quartet, the women as flappers.
"Only," McCabe explained, "because it happened outside one of the target cities on that list you gave me. I got wind of it because the medical examiner in Erie was called in to do an autopsy, and he filed a report that got put on file there in Erie."
Ryerson had some papers relative to the case on the table in front of him. He checked them over briefly, looked up, and said, "Jesus. A sixteen-year-old girl."
McCabe nodded. "Lila Curtis. Poor kid."
"Yeah. Both of them," Ryerson said. Apparently Lila had killed her boyfriend, Tom Muggins, using an M.O. similar, but not identical to The Park Werewolf-then had turned a gun on herself. He pulled a single sheet of paper with the Eastman Kodak logo at the top from underneath the sheets dealing with the murder-suicide near Erie. "And who is it," he said, as much to himself as to McCabe, "that comes from Erie?"
From nearby they heard a loud screech of pain. They looked. A waiter had backed into one of the Cadillac's fins. "Happens all the time," McCabe said. "I'm not sure that car was such a good idea."
"Greta Lynch," Ryerson said.
"Sorry," McCabe said.
"Greta Lynch. She works in Emulsion Technology." He hesitated, thought a moment, went on, "Hey, wait a minute; wasn't that Walt Morgan's section?" He hurriedly got out some more papers with the Kodak logo at the top. He studied one, then another, and another. Finally he said, "Sure. Here it is." He turned the paper toward McCabe, who glanced at it, and said, "Yeah, and?"
"And there's a connection, Tom," Ryerson concluded. "Not only in the fact that this Greta Lynch used to live in Erie, but in the fact that she worked for the third victim, Walt Morgan, as well." He studied Greta's employment sheet for a good half minute, then said, "I'd like to talk with her, Tom. If I could talk with her, I'd-"
McCabe was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Rye. I can't do that. If she is connected somehow to these murders, you might tip her off." He sipped a Coke. "Of course, I'd say the chances are awfully slim, Rye, that she's connected in any way-"
"Because she's a woman?"
"Yes."
"You're living in another century, my friend."
McCabe smiled knowingly. "And I'm better off for it, Rye." Once again, Ryerson got a fleeting glimpse of something slippery and secretive from McCabe. And though he had a chance to study it more closely this time-the image was stronger, less slippery than when he'd interrupted McCabe's sleep with a phone call-he backed off. McCabe was a friend, and was deserving of his privacy, after all.
Their lunch came. Ryerson had a tuna melt on whole wheat, a small salad, and a glass of milk. McCabe had his Coke, the soup of the day-cream of cauliflower-“Chicken Italian," and a medium-sized green salad. "What happened to your appetite, Tom?" Ryerson teased.
McCabe patted his all-too-obvious belly. "Doctor says if I don't lose weight I'll end up on a slab by the time I'm fifty. I don't want to end up on a slab by the time I'm fifty, so I'm trying to cut out a thousand calories or so a day."
"Uh-huh," Ryerson said. As far as he was concerned, people like McCabe were hooked on eating, and though their intentions might be noble, their stomachs still were masters of their spirits. "Why'd you leave me dangling, Tom?"
"Sorry?" He looked confused. Ryerson knew it was an act.
"Why'd you leave me dangling when you left Rochester? Why couldn't you have instructed your people to cooperate with me, for Christ's sake?!" He felt a fit of anger taking hold, fought it back. He didn't want to get on the subject of where McCabe had been for the last two weeks. He knew where he'd been, though McCabe hadn't told him. He'd been resting at his lakeside cottage in the Adirondacks. He had felt the hard, cold touch of reality on his head and had needed, simply and desperately, to run from it, to take a few days of "rejuvenation," to "sweep away the cobwebs"-phrases, Ryerson knew, McCabe would have used if the subject had been broached. But Ryerson wasn't about to broach it. He knew that McCabe had been walking a very thin line, knew that the man had needed the time off, regardless of what was happening in Rochester. And he also knew that the fact was a source of keen embarrassment for him.