The Changing (The Biergarten Series) by T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong Page A
Authors: T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong
Tags: Horror
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from the opening. Again Ryerson read anxiety from her. Her face reappeared. She suggested tentatively, "I guess she had a hard night, Mr. Biergarten ."
And then he read something else, something from within the house, from above, from Greta's apartment. Something like fear. Or paralysis. Something that wanted to scream but couldn't, as if the vocal cords were numb, useless.
He said urgently, "Please, I think I should come in. Let me come in," and he took a step closer to the door.
Linda Bowerman closed the door until half an inch or less separated it from the frame and hissed, "Go away, this is private property!"
"You don't understand," Ryerson pleaded, "and I don't have time to explain, but I know that something's wrong in there. Something's wrong in your house."
"There's nothing wrong in my house. Nothing at all. Now go away, just go away!"
And Ryerson told himself, If she meant it, she'd close the door . "I'm coming in," he announced, "please step aside," and he straight-armed the door. Linda Bowerman backed out of the way, started for her living room, said, over her shoulder, "I'm calling the police." Ryerson said, "Good," because it was, he knew, the very best thing she could do at that moment.
~ * ~
"Motrin," the resident on call in the Emergency Ward at Strong Memorial Hospital explained to Ryerson. Ryerson had been waiting a good two hours for a report. "She took maybe thirty of them. Thirty of the big ones—six hundred milligrams each. We nearly lost her." The resident was a black woman not quite thirty with long straight hair and a distinctly businesslike air about her.
Ryerson breathed a little sigh of relief.
"You're her husband?" the resident asked.
"No, just a friend." He glanced in the direction of the Emergency Ward down a long narrow hallway to his right. "Can I talk to her?"
The resident answered, "In a day or two, yes." She paused, nodded at Creosote, who was snorting and belching, though more quietly than usual. "And without the dog, please."
"Of course," Ryerson answered, embarrassed. "Without the dog."
~ * ~
George Dixon glanced quickly around his office—though there was no one else in it—and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk all the way.
" Goddamnit !" he whispered. " Goddamnit all the fucking hell!" What in God's name was his damned lunch pail doing here? He'd thrown the damned thing into the Genesee River. He studied the pail for a full minute. Then, tremblingly, he reached into the drawer, grabbed the handle, and lifted the pail out. His brow furrowed; this wasn't his lunch pail. His had had a long scratch down the front. This pail was brand new; Jesus, it still had a price tag on it.
He opened the pail quickly. It was empty except for a note written on a piece of yellow, lined paper.
The note said simply, "Who are you trying to kid, George? The world? Or yourself ?"
And he thought desperately, What the hell does someone know about me that I don't?!
Chapter Thirteen
HAPPY ACRES GOLF CLUB: SUNDAY , MAY 4
"Lost it in the sun, damnit !" Jack Youngman whispered.
"Good drive, anyway, Jack," Doug Miller said and teed up for his own shot. "I saw where it landed." They were at the ninth hole, a 413-yard, par-five dogleg to the left that Doug Miller always parred , but which Jack Youngman had parred only once.
Youngman growled back, "Just because I let you play through with me once or twice doesn't mean you can call me anything but 'Mr. Youngman,' you got that?"
Doug Miller grinned, shrugged, and took his shot. The solid thwack of the club head against the ball told him almost at once that it was going to be a long, straight drive, longer, perhaps, than Youngman's, who usually drove well but ended up taking two or three extra shots on the green.
Youngman watched the ball arch high, but not too high, then hit the fairway a good 260 yards straight ahead. He grimaced. "Where are those other assholes, anyway?" he said. "I'll be damned if I have to walk another nine
And then he read something else, something from within the house, from above, from Greta's apartment. Something like fear. Or paralysis. Something that wanted to scream but couldn't, as if the vocal cords were numb, useless.
He said urgently, "Please, I think I should come in. Let me come in," and he took a step closer to the door.
Linda Bowerman closed the door until half an inch or less separated it from the frame and hissed, "Go away, this is private property!"
"You don't understand," Ryerson pleaded, "and I don't have time to explain, but I know that something's wrong in there. Something's wrong in your house."
"There's nothing wrong in my house. Nothing at all. Now go away, just go away!"
And Ryerson told himself, If she meant it, she'd close the door . "I'm coming in," he announced, "please step aside," and he straight-armed the door. Linda Bowerman backed out of the way, started for her living room, said, over her shoulder, "I'm calling the police." Ryerson said, "Good," because it was, he knew, the very best thing she could do at that moment.
~ * ~
"Motrin," the resident on call in the Emergency Ward at Strong Memorial Hospital explained to Ryerson. Ryerson had been waiting a good two hours for a report. "She took maybe thirty of them. Thirty of the big ones—six hundred milligrams each. We nearly lost her." The resident was a black woman not quite thirty with long straight hair and a distinctly businesslike air about her.
Ryerson breathed a little sigh of relief.
"You're her husband?" the resident asked.
"No, just a friend." He glanced in the direction of the Emergency Ward down a long narrow hallway to his right. "Can I talk to her?"
The resident answered, "In a day or two, yes." She paused, nodded at Creosote, who was snorting and belching, though more quietly than usual. "And without the dog, please."
"Of course," Ryerson answered, embarrassed. "Without the dog."
~ * ~
George Dixon glanced quickly around his office—though there was no one else in it—and opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk all the way.
" Goddamnit !" he whispered. " Goddamnit all the fucking hell!" What in God's name was his damned lunch pail doing here? He'd thrown the damned thing into the Genesee River. He studied the pail for a full minute. Then, tremblingly, he reached into the drawer, grabbed the handle, and lifted the pail out. His brow furrowed; this wasn't his lunch pail. His had had a long scratch down the front. This pail was brand new; Jesus, it still had a price tag on it.
He opened the pail quickly. It was empty except for a note written on a piece of yellow, lined paper.
The note said simply, "Who are you trying to kid, George? The world? Or yourself ?"
And he thought desperately, What the hell does someone know about me that I don't?!
Chapter Thirteen
HAPPY ACRES GOLF CLUB: SUNDAY , MAY 4
"Lost it in the sun, damnit !" Jack Youngman whispered.
"Good drive, anyway, Jack," Doug Miller said and teed up for his own shot. "I saw where it landed." They were at the ninth hole, a 413-yard, par-five dogleg to the left that Doug Miller always parred , but which Jack Youngman had parred only once.
Youngman growled back, "Just because I let you play through with me once or twice doesn't mean you can call me anything but 'Mr. Youngman,' you got that?"
Doug Miller grinned, shrugged, and took his shot. The solid thwack of the club head against the ball told him almost at once that it was going to be a long, straight drive, longer, perhaps, than Youngman's, who usually drove well but ended up taking two or three extra shots on the green.
Youngman watched the ball arch high, but not too high, then hit the fairway a good 260 yards straight ahead. He grimaced. "Where are those other assholes, anyway?" he said. "I'll be damned if I have to walk another nine
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