"Sorry," Frances said, "I don't understand that," and her tone announced clearly that she hoped he wasn't asking what she thought he was asking.
Ryerson shook his head urgently. "No, not that kind of woman friend. I'm sorry. I mean, an older woman friend. A woman in her twenties, for instance. Someone she… talked to; like a big sister." His uneasiness doubled.
Will and Frances fell silent for several moments. Then Will said, "Yes," and Frances said, almost at the same time, "She had a friend named Joan. Near Erie."
"Joan?" Ryerson asked. "Do you remember her last name?"
And there was movement in the dirt over the grave. "Good Lord," Ryerson breathed.
Will nodded urgently. "She's gonna talk to us, Mr. Biergarten. Lila's gonna talk to us." He looked at his wife. "Frances, our Lila's gonna talk to us."
"Yes," Frances said matter-of-factly. "I can hear her humming."
"She hums first, Mr. Biergarten," Will said.
"Like a singer warming up her pipes," Frances said, smiling slightly, as if pleased with the image.
The ground quieted. Ryerson heard, from within the grave, what sounded for all the world like someone humming. But it was strained and tight, like air being let out of a balloon.
The humming stopped.
And Ryerson saw, for the first time, that the ground over the grave was quite a bit more disturbed than it should have been. He asked, "How long ago did you say it was that your daughter was buried?"
"Two months," Will answered.
While Creosote whimpered raggedly in his arms-because the dog wouldn't let go of his treasured soft plastic duck-Ryerson knelt over the grave and touched the earth. It was moist, as if it had been freshly turned. He looked up at Frances and Will Curtis, who were looking quizzically down at him. "I…" he began, and wasn't sure what to say next. He looked quickly, anxiously back at the grave.
Will Curtis said, his voice tentative and unsure, "That ground's not settled yet, Mr. Biergarten."
The humming started again, lower in pitch, as if the balloon were running out of air.
"There," Frances said, "Lila's talking to us."
Ryerson glanced at her, shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No, I'm sorry, no," and he looked yet again at the grave and cocked his head to one side to get a better fix on the source of the humming noise. He looked again at Frances and Will Curtis. "I assume that Lila was embalmed."
Frances shook her head. "No, she wasn't. Joan said not to, and the medical examiner in Erie said that was okay if her coffin was closed, which it was-"
"My God," Ryerson breathed; he held Creosote in his left hand and stuck his right hand six or seven inches into the sort earth. He touched something. It felt like the skin that forms on Jell-O that's allowed to harden uncovered. He recoiled, reached into the earth again, let his fingers linger on the thing he was touching there. He kneaded it experimentally and heard the same high, humming sound he'd heard moments earlier, like air escaping from a balloon.
"She's talking to us," Will Curtis cried happily.
"No, I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, I'm sorry-”
“She's talking to us, our Lila is talking to us!"
Chapter Twelve
"She'd been dug up," Ryerson said, "and then reburied, though not quite deep enough, I'm afraid." Tom McCabe shook his head in disbelief.
"And I'm awfully damned sure this friend of Lila's, the woman Frances referred to as ‘Joan,' did it, though I couldn't get much out of Frances or her husband-they were both in a state of shock. He had to be sedated, and she simply refused to talk."
"In time," McCabe suggested.
"We can live in hope, Tom. I'll go back down there in a few days, unless you have some objections."
"No, I don't. I'd like to go with you, though, to sort of keep the whole thing as… official as we can."
"Sure."
"How's the pooch, Rye?"
"I don't know. It was as if he went into shock, too. The vet says he'll be all right, which-"
McCabe, who clearly had asked about Creosote purely from courtesy, broke in. "So you think this `Joan' woman is Greta Lynch?"
Ryerson exhaled slowly, a kind of extended sigh. "I don't know," he said. They were at Foggy's Notion; Ryerson had ordered a scotch and soda, though it wasn't yet noon, and he rarely drank at all, let alone before noon. He'd downed half the drink and could already feel it working on him. "I think there's a good chance that `Joan' and Greta Lynch are the same person. Maybe I want to believe it, because it would start bringing things together for me."
"Oh?" McCabe was intrigued. "How?"
Ryerson took a sip of the drink, set the glass down. "Okay, we know that Greta worked in Erie, right?"
"Right."
"And we know that poor Lila Curtis killed her boyfriend using an M.O. similar to that of The Park Werewolf."
"Uh-huh. Right."
"Okay, now Lila Curtis lived in Edgewater, which is only twenty miles from Erie, and Lila Curtis also had a friend named Joan who may or may not have come from Erie."
"Sure, Rye. But it's damned tenuous. You know that, don't you?"
Ryerson nodded. "If you're saying we can't get a conviction on it, I'm aware of that. We're also not going to get a conviction if we go to a judge and say, 'Judge, a werewolf did these murders.'
McCabe grinned. "So, you've settled on that, huh? That it's a werewolf?"
Ryerson grimaced. "Don't make it sound so melodramatic, Tom. I told you once that I'm not sure I believe in werewolves, and that still goes. I'm not sure what we're dealing with here. First I say that he's got his mythology all wrong, that he's doing his killing not only at times when there's no full moon, but during the day as well, and then this poor bastard-Conkey-gets it under a full moon. I don't know, Tom. I really do not know. And it's frustrating the hell out of me."
"You and me, both, Rye. But off the record-and this goes nowhere but into my head for now-you're saying that what we've got is a genuine, Hammer-films-variety, snarling, gut-eating werewolf. Is that right?"
"That's right," Ryerson answered simply. He stood. "But I wouldn't bet my ass on it, Tom. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to see a man about a dog."
Greta held the sealed envelope in her hand for a full minute before she opened it. It had only her name on it, no stamp, no return address, so whoever had written it had put it in her mailbox himself-and that made her feel more apprehensive than if the mailman had brought it.
When she did open it, she saw the same dark block lettering that had been used in the first letter: My Dearest Greta, Our little secrets are what make us human. Animals have no secrets from each other, beyond where they've hidden their stash of food, and under what logs their dens lie. So, if we are animal, and human, at the same time, then the things that the animal inside us has to do, to survive, become the human's awful secrets. Because the animal knows no shame. It knows only its needs, and how to satisfy them. But secrets like that, Greta, can make us sick and depressed. They can eat away at us and make our human world a place of horror. Share your secrets, Greta. Bring them out, into the light, for me. Then, together, we can make them right and good.
Greta crumpled the letter in her fist and cursed savagely beneath her breath, just as Linda Bowerman appeared from inside the house, her little two-wheel grocery cart in hand.
"Come to the store with me, Greta?" she asked. Greta shook her head, eyes closed.
"Can I get you anything, then? It's no problem."
Again Greta shook her head; she opened her eyes, looked at Linda. "No, thank you. I don't need anything."
Linda shrugged. "Okay, suit yourself." She descended the porch steps, looked back, waved, and said, "See you later."
"Sure," Greta called back, and went sullenly up to her apartment.