Ryerson.
Ryerson went on, "This is very hard to understand," Creosote squirmed so Ryerson could scratch him lower, around his neck, "But you believe you are . . . one of us—"
"Oh, that's very cryptic," said the blond man. "If there's something you want me to know, then simply spit it out."
But Ryerson couldn't spit it out. How could he? This man standing expectantly in front of his desk was convinced that he was alive. ("Sometimes," Sam Goodlow had told him, "I feel like I'm alive. And I believe it.") Ryerson put Creosote on the floor, leaned forward over the desk, clasped his hands. "What is it that you wanted to see me about, Mr. Goodlow ?"
The man smiled broadly. "Yes, now that's better." He glanced about the office, nodded at a straight chair against the wall to his right. "Can I bring that over?"
"Of course."
The man brought the chair over, sat in it, and crossed his arms at his chest. "I have a job for you, Mr. Biergarten . Someone's following me. I don't know who, or why, but I don't like to be followed. Who would? Every time I turn around, there he is. Big fellow. Awkward looking—oafish looking, really. Red hair, unkempt. My God, the man has the face of an infant, but he's very threatening. I mean by that that he looks threatening, Mr. Biergarten . Do you understand?"
Ryerson nodded grimly. "Yes, Mr. Goodlow . I'm afraid that I do."
The man gave Ryerson a quick, quizzical look, then hurried on, "He drives a large car. A fat car. I believe that it's a Lincoln. Every time I turn around, there it is, and there he is. It's very unnerving. Now I know that you are what's called a psychic detective, and I know that this sort of job is not really in your area of expertise, but I feel that you would be a great help to me, nonetheless."
"You may be right."
"Of course I am. I'm a good judge of people, Mr. Biergarten , and I have the clear idea that this is something you could sink your teeth into. Am I right?"
"I already have."
"I'm sure of it. I can see it in your eyes." He stood abruptly, bent over the desk, offered Ryerson his hand. Ryerson stood, shook his hand.
The man said, "I have other business for now, Mr. Biergarten . But I'll be in touch."
"I'm looking forward to it," Ryerson said.
SIXTEEN
Jack Lutz watched as his wife moved absently about their living room.
It was a big living room. They had bought the house thinking that such a large living room would be a good place to entertain. It was furnished tastefully, in muted shades of brown, gray, and beige, and there was just enough chrome that it did not shock the eye.
Stevie Lutz moved haltingly in this room, through the tasteful furnishings, into the walls, and then out again, and the expression on her face was, impossibly, one of confusion and sleep at the same time, as if she were suffering under some great inner turmoil, or had suddenly gone blind, but was not yet quite aware of it.
Jack Lutz had called to her repeatedly, of course, but it had become clear that she could not hear him, or would not hear him, so he had merely watched her.
He reached for her once, but his fingers went into her stomach without touching her, and that made him confused and fearful, so he did not try to do it again.
His lawyer had called just before Stevie's appearance in the living room. The police, his lawyer said, were on their way over to arrest Lutz in connection with Stevie's disappearance.
Lutz thought that when they arrived he would show them his wife, here, in the living room, and it would prove to them that she was alive, at least. He had no idea what might happen then.
~ * ~
"I'm sorry I hung up on you, Mr. Biergarten ," Jenny Goodlow said at Ryerson's front door. She smiled an apology; Ryerson thought it was a very attractive and sincere smile, and he realized that in their two admittedly brief encounters, it was the first time he had seen it.
He stepped to one side, invited her into the town house, and led her to the living room, where he
Ryerson went on, "This is very hard to understand," Creosote squirmed so Ryerson could scratch him lower, around his neck, "But you believe you are . . . one of us—"
"Oh, that's very cryptic," said the blond man. "If there's something you want me to know, then simply spit it out."
But Ryerson couldn't spit it out. How could he? This man standing expectantly in front of his desk was convinced that he was alive. ("Sometimes," Sam Goodlow had told him, "I feel like I'm alive. And I believe it.") Ryerson put Creosote on the floor, leaned forward over the desk, clasped his hands. "What is it that you wanted to see me about, Mr. Goodlow ?"
The man smiled broadly. "Yes, now that's better." He glanced about the office, nodded at a straight chair against the wall to his right. "Can I bring that over?"
"Of course."
The man brought the chair over, sat in it, and crossed his arms at his chest. "I have a job for you, Mr. Biergarten . Someone's following me. I don't know who, or why, but I don't like to be followed. Who would? Every time I turn around, there he is. Big fellow. Awkward looking—oafish looking, really. Red hair, unkempt. My God, the man has the face of an infant, but he's very threatening. I mean by that that he looks threatening, Mr. Biergarten . Do you understand?"
Ryerson nodded grimly. "Yes, Mr. Goodlow . I'm afraid that I do."
The man gave Ryerson a quick, quizzical look, then hurried on, "He drives a large car. A fat car. I believe that it's a Lincoln. Every time I turn around, there it is, and there he is. It's very unnerving. Now I know that you are what's called a psychic detective, and I know that this sort of job is not really in your area of expertise, but I feel that you would be a great help to me, nonetheless."
"You may be right."
"Of course I am. I'm a good judge of people, Mr. Biergarten , and I have the clear idea that this is something you could sink your teeth into. Am I right?"
"I already have."
"I'm sure of it. I can see it in your eyes." He stood abruptly, bent over the desk, offered Ryerson his hand. Ryerson stood, shook his hand.
The man said, "I have other business for now, Mr. Biergarten . But I'll be in touch."
"I'm looking forward to it," Ryerson said.
SIXTEEN
Jack Lutz watched as his wife moved absently about their living room.
It was a big living room. They had bought the house thinking that such a large living room would be a good place to entertain. It was furnished tastefully, in muted shades of brown, gray, and beige, and there was just enough chrome that it did not shock the eye.
Stevie Lutz moved haltingly in this room, through the tasteful furnishings, into the walls, and then out again, and the expression on her face was, impossibly, one of confusion and sleep at the same time, as if she were suffering under some great inner turmoil, or had suddenly gone blind, but was not yet quite aware of it.
Jack Lutz had called to her repeatedly, of course, but it had become clear that she could not hear him, or would not hear him, so he had merely watched her.
He reached for her once, but his fingers went into her stomach without touching her, and that made him confused and fearful, so he did not try to do it again.
His lawyer had called just before Stevie's appearance in the living room. The police, his lawyer said, were on their way over to arrest Lutz in connection with Stevie's disappearance.
Lutz thought that when they arrived he would show them his wife, here, in the living room, and it would prove to them that she was alive, at least. He had no idea what might happen then.
~ * ~
"I'm sorry I hung up on you, Mr. Biergarten ," Jenny Goodlow said at Ryerson's front door. She smiled an apology; Ryerson thought it was a very attractive and sincere smile, and he realized that in their two admittedly brief encounters, it was the first time he had seen it.
He stepped to one side, invited her into the town house, and led her to the living room, where he
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