This is it, Ryerson thought.
"Mr. Biergarten?" Andrews coaxed. "You there?"
"Yes. I'm here." He paused again, again thought, This is it, and continued, "I'm sorry. I have no evidence." And he hung up.
Douglas Miller was furious. "You let someone in here, into my apartment?! You fool, you idiot, you goddamned, lame-brained-" He stopped. He could see the hurt in Ira Cole's eyes. He inhaled deeply. "Who?" he asked.
Ira Cole stammered, "I… I don't remember.”
“Who was it?"
"I'm… sorry, Douglas. He said he was with the police."
Miller froze.
Ira Cole said again, "I'm sorry, Douglas."
Miller said, "Did you watch him? Did he touch anything? Did he put his fingers on anything?"
"No, Douglas. I don't think so." Ira Cole was loosening up because Miller's anger seemed to be abating. "You keep a very neat apartment, Douglas. I've never seen anyone keep such a neat apartment-I wish all of my tenants kept such neat apartments-"
"I'm not an animal," Miller said, his voice a ragged, hoarse whisper that surprised Ira Cole. "So I won't live like one. I'm clean." He said this almost reverently. "I'm human, and I'm clean!"
Ira Cole said, "I'm glad," and meant it. He smiled quickly; "I remember his name now, Douglas. His name was Mr. Biergarten. He was a foreigner, I think. He didn't talk like a foreigner-"
But Douglas Miller had turned then and gone into his apartment, leaving behind the only thing that Ira Cole had lately found hard to take about him: his smell.
"Do you have any answers for me, Creosote?" Ryerson said. The dog was sitting on the bed beside him, duck between his paws. "What do you think? Do we get hold of some silver bullets, like Joan did?" He grinned uncomfortably, because he knew-his "special brain" told him-that "Joan," whoever she was (and maybe someday he'd find out), had done what… damnit, what popular mythology told her she should do? Kill the beast with a silver bullet, kill the beast with fire, kill the beast with holy water, kill the beast with flowing water, kill the beast with a stake through its heart, kill the beast in any of a number of prescribed ways. Depending on what the beast was, of course, and how it manifested itself.
But there was something else at work here. In Rochester.
Something that mythology had never reckoned on.
Something that had gotten loose from… somewhere (God knew where), something that played a kind of game of cat and mouse with a person's soul, something that rooted out the evil, the black ooze it found there, and built on it, and when it was tired of the game, gobbled it up.
Ryerson scratched Creosote behind the ears. "What am I talking about, fella? Tell me what I'm talking about. Tell me what it is I'm thinking." Because Ryerson could not really verbalize what he was thinking-getting hold of the substance of it was like watching a dim star; you looked slightly to the left or to the right; you looked slightly away from it, because if you tried to see it straight on, it merged with the overwhelming darkness and was gone.
Creosote quieted suddenly.
"What's the matter, fella?" Ryerson coaxed. Creosote began to whimper.
"Creosote, what's the-"
Ryerson heard a knock at the door; he snapped his gaze toward it. "Mr. Samuelson?" he said.
There was no answer.
He called louder, "Mr. Samuelson? Is that you?”
“No," he heard. "It's me. It's Mr. Ashland."
You live, thought Loren Samuelson with a strange kind of poetic grace, you love, you die! Simple. Life is simple. You get it, you lose it. Simple.
Hello, hello, Marie Anne! and a small, weak smile spread over his mouth as he watched his wife, dead fifteen years, float appealingly in the air above him, watched her reach longingly for him.
Come home, Loren, she whispered, Come home, Loren, come home, Loren.
"Yes," he whispered through the blood filling his mouth.
You are done with this body, Loren. A new life waits for you; we will have a life together. Forever. Come home, come home.
"Yes," he managed gurglingly. "Yes."
I love you, Loren. Come home. Come home.
He nodded. "Yes," he said again, though it was inaudible now, even to himself. And with a small, grateful smile on his lips, he mouthed the word "Home," and he died.
Chapter Twenty-one
In Edgewater, Pennsylvania, sixteen-year-old Larry Wilde's Great Aunt Katherine was trying hard to comfort him in his grief; she wasn't having much luck. Larry's tears wouldn't stop, and they'd been coming now for nearly two hours.
"There, there," Great Aunt Katherine soothed, holding the boy's head to her old but very ample bosom.
"I loved her, Aunt Katherine. I loved my mother!"
"There, there," she repeated, wished that she could think of something else to say, and decided that the repetition itself was probably comforting. "They'll catch him. They'll catch the bastard."
Larry stopped weeping for a second or two; he'd never heard his staid Aunt Katherine use a word like that, and he wasn't sure what to think of it. He said, "You think so? Do you really think so?"
"Of course," she said.
"They'd better!" Larry said, hate and venom welling up with his tears.
"They will," Great Aunt Katherine assured him. "If there's a God in heaven, they will!"
Fear gripped Ryerson Biergarten's chest like a snake, making his breathing ragged and his head spin. He called, "What do you want, Mr. Ashland?"
"I want to talk. I have some information for you."
Ryerson said nothing; he glanced at Creosote, who'd stopped whimpering and was now as stiff as a lead pipe; Ryerson would have had to look closely to be sure the dog was alive.
"Mr. Biergarten? Are you there?"
Ryerson called back, his voice choked with apprehension, "How did you get in? Did Mr. Samuelson let you in?" It was a delaying tactic; it gave Ryerson time to gather his wits about him.
"Yes, of course, Mr. Biergarten. Please let me in. I have some very important information for you."
Ryerson's hand went to Creosote's ears and scratched them nervously; Ryerson let out a trembling sigh. He wanted desperately to yell, "Perhaps some other time, Mr. Ashland," but again the words This is it! came to him, as they had when he'd been talking to Detective Andrews. Only now they meant so much more. Now he had to listen to them. Now he had to do his damned job!
He put his arm around Creosote, stood with him, went to the door, and hesitated: "Are you alone, Mr. Ashland?" he called. He wasn't sure why he'd asked it; he'd gotten a quick, unclear image of two people beyond the door. Two entities, at least.
"Yes, I'm alone."
Ryerson turned the knob, opened the door.
It was the smell that hit him first; a smell that was a nerve-jarring combination of blood, ammonia, and bile. It swept over him from the hallway like a shroud, and made him even dizzier than his apprehension had. He put his free hand out and steadied himself on the door frame.
"Are you okay, Mr. Biergarten?"
Ryerson answered, straightening, and shaking his head to clear it, "Yes, thank you." He looked the man squarely in the eye. He said, "Please don't call yourself 'Mr. Ashland.' I know who you are. I was at the hospital-"
Miller grinned; it was designed to be coy, Ryerson thought. It wasn't; it was malicious. "Were you?" he said. "And were you also at my apartment?"
Delay! Ryerson told himself. "You said you had some information-" he began, and stopped abruptly. An image had flashed into his head: the image of two people lying naked together. It came and went as quickly as a glance. He repeated, "You said you had some information for me."
Miller nodded.
Ryerson wondered, Is it the light? Because the lights in the corridors of the Samuelson Guest House had always been dim; "Saves electric," Loren Samuelson had explained. Or is this man actually gray? Ryerson's thoughts continued.