Ryerson approached the church from the street side, up the twenty wide stone steps to the great oak doors-the only wood in the building that had survived nearly unscathed the awful kiss of the flames-stopped there, and whispered to himself, "I'm a fool!" He meant it. Because he knew that if he were not a fool he'd have called Detective Andrews, or he'd have flagged down a passing patrol car-and indeed, one had passed on its way to Edgemont Street, which paralleled Lake Avenue, as he'd made his way to the church from the Samuelson Guest House-or, at the most, he'd have hidden somewhere near the church, waited for poor Douglas Miller to reappear, and then would have decided what to do next. But he knew what he was going to do. He was going to seek Douglas Miller out in that maze of stone passageways. He was going to follow the monster underground.
He knew the passageways were there because, for whole seconds at a time, he could see them through what served as Douglas Miller's eyes: he saw two vague, gray planes that were cut by the dark horizontals and verticals of doorways that had once led into rooms where church school was held, and benefit suppers eaten, and Bingo played. And Ryerson could hear, too, the slight, muted echoes of past events-the Bingo games, the suppers, the church school-which lingered for decades in places like this.
"Miller!" he called through the half-open front doors of the church. Beyond them a wide section of charred oak floor remained. Several yards to the right of the doors, a stone stairway led into the snakelike maze of passageways beneath. Again Ryerson called, "Miller!" but heard nothing. He sensed someone watching him from the street and turned his head. A short, thin, dark-haired man wearing horn-rimmed glasses was watching him with passing interest. The man called, "You'd best not go in there. It's dangerous. Damned kids!" Which was a reference to the fact that although the authorities regularly boarded up the doors, children in the area had consistently broken in.
"Yes," Ryerson agreed. Then he pushed on the doors, and with Creosote snorting in his arms, went into the ruined interior of the church. B-three. That's B-three… I-nineteen And bless this man and this woman… And make His face to shine upon thee
"Miller!" Ryerson called. He expected no answer. He expected that Miller-the creature which had once been Miller-might look up at him from the maze of passageways beneath, and that at the moment the creature looked up, he would see what it saw, and so would know in what part of the maze it was hiding. What God hath joined together let no man put asunder…
The muted echoes of past events came and went from Ryerson's mind like swiftly flying night birds. Welcome to St. Januarius, Welcome to St. Januarius And if that were to happen, if he saw himself through this creature's eyes and knew then where it was hiding… The lousy bum ate my chiffon pie but totally ignored the beans… then he would have to decide what to do next. N-twenty-three; N-twenty-three!
"Miller!"
And it happened.
He saw himself at the lip of that narrow, charred section of oak floor; he saw Creosote. He saw a pale blanket of clouds above.
And he knew where the creature was in that maze. And he knew this, too: he knew that the creature wasn't hiding.
It was waiting. B-eight, 0-forty-five, G-thirty-three: Bingo! Bingo!
"Shut up!" Ryerson screamed.
And from beneath, in the maze, he heard, "Greta!" in a voice that was torn, and piercing, and tremulous, like a tree splitting. "Greta, Greta, Greta," again and again, until it was little more than a dense screeching noise, a noise of fatal resignation: This is done; this is done! And at last nothing.
Ryerson saw the steps that led into the maze, and he took them quietly, Creosote silent in his arms. He heard behind him a heightened noise of traffic on Lake Avenue as people started their evenings at theaters and restaurants and shopping malls.
And when he reached the bottom of those stairs, he realized that he'd forgotten to take one awful fact into account: at night, in darkness that was several shades down from semi-darkness, as this place was, he was as blind as a bottom-dwelling fish. Sure, now and again glimpses of this place pushed fleetingly into his brain from the eyes of the creature he was pursuing. But his own eyes were all but useless here.
And what, he asked himself, am I going to do when I find him? If I find him? And he answered almost at once, I'm going to be his supper! which made him grin tremblingly.
He called, "Mr. Miller, I can help you. I want to help you." It wasn't a lie. It was simply an embellishment, he supposed. He did want to help him; he simply wasn't sure how he was going to help him-that was a bridge he'd cross when he came to it. But wasn't this poor creature pretty much the same as the darkly laughable spook in the Vermont cellar who spent his existence shouting creative obscenities at whoever might be listening? And wasn't this creature essentially the same as
No, Ryerson answered himself. This creature was different. This creature had an overwhelming need, a consuming lust for Death gobbling it up.
And that's when Ryerson started backing away, toward the stone stairway he'd just come down. Because he'd realized, at last, that however noble his intentions might be, he was powerless to help the creature that called itself Douglas Miller. He might as well, he realized, have hoped to reason with a disease.
Then he saw himself briefly through that creature's eyes; he saw the tall, athletic body, the square, intriguing face, the quiet baggage that was Creosote under his arm; and he saw the trembling, the fear. And he saw it all with a harsh, black-and-white reality that was as jarring as a slap in the face.
Then it was gone. And the smell of the creature whose eyes he had used replaced it.
And he thought, No pain! Please, no pain!
Creosote whimpered, snorted, growled deep in his throat. And the smell of the thing that had been Douglas Miller fell over him like black water. No pain, please, no pain! B-six, 0-sixty, I-sixteen No pain, please Turn, now, in your Catechism to the story of Lazarus "Mr. Miller, I can help you, I want to help you-" The bum ate my chiffon pie but never touched the beans
Cresote belched, snorted, growled.
Then fell silent.
Because the smell had dissipated. The creature that had called itself Douglas Miller had retreated. Into the maze. And Ryerson thought that if Creosote could have talked, he would have used one phrase to describe the reason for his momentary revival-"That disgusting smell!" he would have said.
"Mr. Miller!" Ryerson called. "I can help you, I want to help you," and he stopped backing away from the stone stairs that led up out of the maze and into the city.
This is it! he thought. This is it! It's time to do my job! It's time to help this creature! And he moved blindly forward into the maze. And walked face first into a wall. He stepped back, instinctively turned slightly to the right, moved forward again, slowly, feet barely lifting from the stone floor. He had a pair of eyes to use, after all. He had the creature's eyes to use.
"Mr. Miller, let me help you. I'm here to help you!"
And in his mind's eye he saw Douglas Miller and Lila Curtis lying naked together. And he saw a strange dull glow come into Lila's eyes, as if something smoldered deep within her. He saw her head move quickly forward into Douglas Miller's shoulder, saw her head come back, saw blood there at her mouth, heard Douglas Miller say, "Jees, what'd you do that for?"
Again he walked face first into a wall; he felt a gash open on his cheek. He winced, let a small grown of pain out, and supposed, distractedly, that that would probably be the very smallest pain he'd experience that evening.