Goodlow's Ghosts (22 page)

But she knew that she was smiling through it all because the bottom line was simple—she was a superior human being. She had bested Violet
McCartle
, who had assumed, so stupidly, that because they looked so much alike, their psyches and their souls were identical, too. Then she had gone on to eliminate all those who could stand in her way, and now could count herself as one of the very wealthy. And wealth equaled power. And power equaled control.

She would no longer be controlled by those around her. She would be the one in control, she would be the one to decide who did what, and to whom, and why.

Wasn't that, after all, the right and privilege of a superior human being? To control. To wield power over the inferior, who could not know what was good for them, anyway.

And those who betrayed her—like the big man, who had persisted in his transparent lies even when he had to have known that
she
knew he was lying (and who so often made his idiotic threats to scatter her brains about)—would fall victim to her withering and merciless judgment, as would those who opposed her, and those who could oppose her, and those who supported them, and those, like Rebecca
Meechum
and Sam
Goodlow
, who were simply too stupid to go on living, and those, like Ryerson
Biergarten
, who were too damned smart for their own good, and those--

She heard a moan. It seemed very loud. Too loud.

The side of her head hurt and she didn't know why. She touched it, felt it, sensed her fingers moving in, through her temple. She withdrew her hand, looked at it, saw a mass of coagulated blood. But then it was gone, and she moved forward.

She was at the entrance to the second attic space and she peered through it, into the third attic. She called, "Mr.
Biergarten
, it seems you are in pain. I am here to relieve it." And she chuckled.

~ * ~

Sam
Goodlow
said, "She's a funny woman."

Ryerson could say nothing. He was watching himself breathe and listening to himself moan.

Sam stood. "You're very quiet suddenly," he said. He went over to the circa 1930 phone, picked it up, dialed it.

Ryerson looked at him. "You can't call anyone on that thing," he said. "It's not hooked up."

"Neither am I," Sam said. Then, speaking into the telephone, "Captain Willis, please."

~ * ~

The woman who called herself Violet
McCartle
did not want to believe that she heard talking from within the third attic, but she knew that she did, and it troubled her. If Ryerson
Biergarten
were talking to himself, it meant either that he was delirious, or that he was crazy. If he was crazy, then he would pose the particular kind of threat that crazy people posed—he would be unpredictable. And unpredictable people were always in control because other people didn't know what the hell they were going to do, and so everyone was afraid of them. And if power equaled control, so did fear.

But it was really no problem at all, she decided. A bullet in the brain would cure his unpredictability, and his craziness, in a microsecond.

"Mr.
Biergarten
," she said, as she advanced through the all-but-empty second attic, "if you're crazy, then I have a cure for that, as well." And she chuckled again.

Her head hurt. She put her hand to it, touched, felt, probed, withdrew her hand, saw a pancake-sized mass of deep red tissue. It vanished.

She moved forward.

~ * ~

"Never mind who this is," Sam
Goodlow
said angrily into the telephone. "Suffice it to say that Captain Willis and I have a mutual friend, Ryerson
Biergarten
, and he's in a shitload of trouble."

At that moment, Ryerson was tentatively probing at his body with the toe of his shoe, and he was becoming very troubled because his shoe seemed too real—it met resistance when it touched his body, and he had hoped that he could simply slip back in. "I don't understand," he complained. "If I'm here"—he slapped his chest—"in spirit, and there"—he pointed at the body on the floor—"in reality, why the hell can't I—"

"In a moment, Rye," Sam cut in. "They're getting Captain Willis for me."

Ryerson looked at him, astonished. "I need your help here, Sam."

"And you're getting it." He glanced quickly and questioningly toward the second attic, and cocked his head in confusion. Something was very wrong with the woman approaching.

He said into the telephone, "Captain Willis?"

~ * ~

The woman who called herself Violet
McCartle
looked at her free hand. The fingers of both her hands felt oddly heavy. As if there were fishing sinkers attached. How strange. She couldn't remember having had such a feeling before. Perhaps it was simply the weight of the pistol. Six pounds of metal was certainly a heavy weight for anyone to carry at the end of an outstretched arm.

But her toes felt heavy, too, she noticed. A circulatory problem, perhaps. If extremities could tingle and fall asleep because of circulatory problems, then it was certainly possible for them to feel heavy.

But, no matter, she decided.

She still felt pumped, powerful, invincible. And she had a chore to dispense with.

"Mr.
Biergarten
," she called through the second attic, "your days as a sentient being have come to an end."

~ * ~

Sam
Goodlow
said into the telephone, "But this really is Sam
Goodlow
."

The toe of Ryerson's shoe penetrated an inch or so into his thigh. He smiled. He was getting somewhere.

Sam
Goodlow
said into the telephone, "I'm not a woman. I'm a man. Why the hell would you think you're talking to a woman?"

Ryerson looked at him. "Trouble?"

Sam held the phone out, clearly astonished. "He hung up on me. The bastard hung up on me. He thought I was a woman. I'm not a woman! Do I
sound
like a woman?"

Ryerson nodded. "Sometimes."

"You're kidding."

Ryerson inclined his chin to indicate his foot, which seemed to be stuck in his thigh. "Can you give me a hand here, Sam. I seem to be having some difficulty."

"When do I sound like a woman?" Sam asked, obviously offended. "I mean, I know I don't possess actual, physical vocal cords anymore, so my voice probably comes out kind of—" He glanced suddenly toward the second attic. "Uh-oh!" he said.

Ryerson looked.

The woman who called herself Violet
McCartle
stood ten feet away, and she was pointing a gun at the body lying on its stomach on the floor—Ryerson's body. She wore a contented grin. She looked as if she were about to eat a chocolate sundae.

"Uh-oh, what?" Ryerson said, because, at that moment, he did not see the woman. He looked again at his foot, which was caught in his thigh.

Sam glanced quickly at Ryerson, then at the woman again, then at Ryerson. "Uh-oh, her!"

~ * ~

The woman who called herself Violet
McCartle
thought,
What a moment this is. What power at my command. Just a twitch of the finger and a life is extinguished forever
. Which was how long, her thoughts continued, that a moment like this—this moment of godlike control and power—should rightfully be savored. Forever!

~ * ~

Sam looked at the woman. She was in exactly the same position she'd been in ten seconds earlier. Straight arm, gun held tightly, body erect, chocolate-sundae grin.

He looked once more at Ryerson. "You don't see her, do you?"

But then Ryerson did see her. Then she wavered, and was gone. Then she returned, wavered, returned.

Sam said, "She got what was promised her."

Ryerson's foot sank deeper into his thigh, which made his heart pump fast. Christ, this was probably a lot like being born.

"Take it slow," Sam warned.

"Slow, hell!" Ryerson shouted, and his foot flowed into his leg, and his leg followed, and foot and leg were one, and then he felt a headache he knew would last for a very long time.

TWO DAYS LATER

From his hospital bed, Ryerson
Biergarten
said to Jenny
Goodlow
, "I know how you feel." He hesitated. "I came to view your brother as a kind of . . . absent friend during the two weeks I was looking for him, and, without meaning to sound presumptuous, I have to say that I feel his loss, too—"

"But I don't understand why they had to kill him, Mr.
Biergarten
," Jenny cut in.

Ryerson nodded, acknowledging her confusion. "Yes," he said, "I understand that." He hesitated, uncertain how to continue. Sam had died so needlessly, and no one wants to hear that a loved one has died needlessly, at the whim of another. "The real Violet
McCartle
," Ryerson continued, "was very ill and didn't want her business associates to know. She thought it made her vulnerable in their eyes. So she hired the imposter to take her place in matters of business. She wanted to look hale and hearty, even though she was often confined to a wheelchair. But the woman she hired saw the whole thing as a wonderful opportunity to become the new Violet
McCartle
. She had Violet killed, and then proceeded to ransack the woman's holdings—her stock portfolio, her bank accounts, et cetera. But before Violet was killed, she hired your brother to take charge of a couple of photographs which showed both her and the imposter together. I believe that Sam became confused, Jenny; I believe that he himself didn't know which woman was the real Violet
McCartle
, and that's why he called me. He thought I would simply
know
which was the real one. And I think that I would have. But then, Sam was killed." Ryerson paused. "There is some justice in the whole matter. The imposter herself was killed by the man who was supposed to have been her bodyguard." He did not give her the grim details of the woman's death, did not tell her that the woman's perverse spirit had climbed the stairs to the attic, and was there even now, caught forever in her moment of greatest happiness—the moment just before she thought she would pull the trigger and put a bullet in Ryerson's brain.

Jenny
Goodlow
looked misty eyed. "Sam was such a gentle soul, Mr.
Biergarten
. I remember that once he caught this little mouse that was living in his office, and he took it out to the park and let it go. Who cares about mice? Only gentle people. And simply looking at him, you probably wouldn't have thought he'd do such a thing. He didn't actually
look
gentle, not unless you really knew him. Or unless you really looked into his eyes. I think he always thought of himself as kind of. . . oafish, I guess. Kind of big and clumsy and oafish. But he was in reality such an exquisitely gentle soul."

Ryerson nodded. "And still is," he said. "And still is."