Joan laughed; Ryerson looked at her, astonished, then, at Creosote, then at the slipper which, he realized sinkingly, had been whole when Creosote had it in his mouth, but was now in two pieces, the top and the bottom, joined by a slender pink thread. He held the two pieces up in front of his nose, while Creosote sniffed desultorily at them, as if they had suddenly lost their interest. Ryerson said, "Gosh, I'm sorry, Joan; first your jacket, and now your slipper-"
Joan, still laughing-a laugh that had only the whisper of strain in it-said, "No, please, Rye; it's only a slipper. I never wore it, anyway. Let him have it."
Again Ryerson looked from her to Creosote to the mangled slipper. "Are you sure?" he said.
Joan's laughter subsided. "Sure I'm sure."
Ryerson put the slipper to Creosote's muzzle; Creosote licked it disinterestedly, then squirmed to be let down. Ryerson said, shrugging, "I don't think he wants it, Joan."
She said quietly, simply, "I like you, Rye."
It caught him off guard. He said, Creosote still squirming to be let down, "Thanks. I like you, too."
"Good." She nodded at Creosote. "You can let him down. It's nice to have an animal around the house again." A pause. "And if you don't mind, Rye, I'd like to talk some more about Lila."
~ * ~
The woman who called herself Loni had left the luckless Alan Pierce's front door wide open, so his body and Laurie Drake were discovered only ten minutes later, four minutes after the shooting on Baldridge Street, by Alan's next-door neighbor, Mrs. Sibbe-a tall, gray-haired, officious-looking welfare worker-who phoned the police to report what she'd found, hesitated, put her hand to her stomach, went on. "Forty-two Lawrence Street, Apartment six B," then hung up, went into her bathroom, and vomited.
She was pretty much pulled together when the police arrived five minutes later. She watched as Detective Guy Mallory bent over the body of Alan Pierce, who was half lying, half sitting against the doorjamb, with his chin on his chest, eyes open, and his pupils rolled up in their sockets. Mallory put his finger to Pierce's left jugular, got no pulse there, then stepped aside for a man in white who had a Medivac emblem on his shoulder. "Looks like he's had it," Mallory said. Mrs. Sibbe then watched as Mallory bent over the naked Laurie Drake, who was still in the fetal position, her body covered with a creamy yellowish substance, like melted butter. Laurie's breathing was very shallow. It was the first time that Mrs. Sibbe had seen that Laurie's thumb was in her mouth, and she stepped forward from her apartment and announced, "I didn't know that girl was alive. If I'd known she was alive, I would have called for an ambulance, too."
Mallory glanced at her. "It's okay, ma'am; an ambulance was called just in case." He turned to Laurie Drake, then glanced at the man in white and said, "Give me some help with this one." The man in white nodded, came over, felt Laurie's pulse, turned to an ashen-faced uniformed cop who had just appeared, and said, "Get a blanket, would you?" The cop nodded dully and started into the apartment, apparently to find the bedroom. Mallory called, "No, no; Jesus, you'll mess up whatever evidence there is in there. Get a blanket from your car."
The cop, a rookie, answered unsteadily, "Oh. Sure. Sorry," and quickly disappeared down the stairway. He came back several minutes later, blanket in hand, and gave it to Mallory.
That's when Captain Lucas showed up. "There's been a shooting over on Baldridge Street, Guy."
Mallory looked up at him. "Oh?"
Lucas nodded. "Yeah. A cop shot a kid who was attacking some woman-at least that's what I got over the radio. The ambulance is on the way, but I'd like you to check it out and give this cop a hand. Spurling's there, but he's just about useless-"
Mallory, confused, interrupted, "But Jack, what about all this-"
Lucas stuck his hand out. "Give me your notebook. I'll take over."
Reluctantly, Mallory obeyed.
~ * ~
It was the smell that Lucas noticed first. It wasn't a bad smell; it wasn't gut-wrenching. It was almost pleasant-an acidic bitter sweetness, like concentrated lemon juice.
And it came to him-as he stood in the doorway to Alan Pierce's apartment and studied the awful scene in front of him-that he had encountered that smell before.
A uniformed cop appeared behind him. "Captain Lucas?"
"Yeah?" Lucas barked.
"I thought you should know; that boy, Benny Bloom, is going to be all right."
"What boy?"
"The boy who got shot on Baldridge Street."
"No one's named Benny Bloom."
"Sorry, Captain, but he is. Benjamin Bloom. They took him to Buffalo Memorial with a gunshot wound to the right arm."
"Uh-huh. And what about this woman who was attacked?"
"Which one, Captain?"
"What do you mean, which one? The one this boy, this Benny Bloom attacked, for Christ's sake!"
"Sorry. Two women were attacked, sir. One of the women"-he checked his notebook-"her name is Lilian Janus, was attacked by another woman; we don't have her name, yet. But this Janus woman is a mess, sir. Her face was torn to shreds. And the other woman ran off after the shooting."
"Ran off? To where?"
The cop shrugged. "Into ‘The District’, I think. We've got people looking for her right now."
"The district? What district?"
"Sorry, sir. That's what it's called. 'The District.' It's where all those abandoned buildings are-"
"Oh, yes," Lucas cut in. "Yes, I know what you're talking about. You said some people went after this woman. What people?"
Again the cop shrugged. "A couple of uniforms, Captain. The cop who shot this Benny Bloom is one of them, and Detective Spurling-"
"Yes," Lucas said, "I know about Spurling." He studied the grim scene in Alan Pierce's apartment for a moment, then said to the cop, "Thanks. That will be all. Keep me informed."
~ * ~
Gail Newman was at Buffalo Memorial, in a private room on the third floor. Benny Bloom was at Buffalo Memorial, too, in Intensive Care on the first floor. X-rays had shown that fragments of the bullet that struck his arm had ricocheted into his chest, lodging near his right ventricle, and the physician in charge in Intensive Care, Dr. Chandler, had decided to open him up. So, while Benny lay half awake in Intensive Care, awaiting surgery, Gail Newman was playing solitaire two floors above.
And five miles away, Ryerson Biergarten was seeing things.
"Rye?" Joan coaxed. "Is something wrong?"
They were in her living room. Ryerson was in an upholstered rocking chair with Creosote in his lap, the soft plastic duck held loosely in his mouth; Joan was in a wing chair nearby. They had begun to talk about Lila Curtis, but Joan had gotten no more than half a sentence out when Ryerson's eyes glazed over, his mouth opened slightly, and it became clear that his attention had suddenly changed focus.
"Rye?" Joan said again.
He stiffly turned his head toward her.
"Oh," he murmured, "I'm sorry. I guess I was somewhere else." It was clear, even as he spoke, that he still was somewhere else.
The soft plastic duck fell to the floor as Creosote nodded off. Ryerson glanced at the duck, leaned over as if to pick it up, straightened, glanced at Joan, then lifted his head a little so his gaze appeared to be on the living room wall.
"Talk to me, Rye?" Joan said.
"Yes," he whispered, and began idly stroking Creosote. "Yes," he whispered again.
In his mind's eye, he was seeing the soft, pretty pale blue of an early morning sky.
Joan asked, "Can I get you something?"
He said nothing. In his lap, Creosote began to gurgle raggedly.
Normally, the field of soft, pale blue that Ryerson was seeing would have been very pleasant. But there were dark gray smudges here and there on it, like pieces of a gathering storm. It had a kind of acid bittersweet smell, too, and Ryerson thought in so many words, That's odd.