Goodlow's Ghosts (6 page)

Bernie and Bernice were on the third floor. Bernie was huffing and puffing from his climb up the stairs, and his chest hurt.

"We got far to go?" he asked Bernice, who still had hold of his hand.

She answered, without looking at him, "Not far. Down at the end of the hall."

"End of the hall," he echoed, and hoped he wouldn't collapse before they got there.

"You'll be all right," she told him. "I'll give you some dinner, then we'll screw."

They arrived at her apartment. She reached around him and pushed the door open, gestured, said, "Well, c'mon."

He nodded. His chest still hurt. Alarmingly, his left arm hurt, too. He hesitated. Her apartment was pitch dark. "Turn the light on," he said, and glanced at her.

"Silly," she said, gave him a pouting sort of smile, reached around the doorway, and flicked the light switch. An overhead light came on.

He looked inside. The apartment was bare.

"You live here?" he asked incredulously, his gaze on the room.

"After a fashion," she said behind him.

"But there ain't no furniture."

"Don't need no furniture," she said.

He glanced at her. She was grinning from ear to ear. It was a hideous grin against the sad gray mask of her face because her teeth were startling white and her lips were beet red. He hadn't noticed this before. He asked her, "You all right?"

"I'm fine," she whispered.

He looked away, into the apartment again. "What do you sleep on?" he asked nervously.

"
Nothin
'," she answered. "I don't sleep."

He glanced at her again. She was still grinning, but it wasn't as broad as it had been a moment earlier, and her teeth were not as glaringly white, her lips not as bright red. She looked more human. "Only joking," she said. "Go on inside. Please." She was pleading with him.

He shook his head. "No. I don't like this. It's weird.
You're
weird."

Her grin slipped. "You
have
to go in!" she exclaimed. "If you don't go in, we can't fuck. Please, Jack."

Bernie said, "Jack? My name's not Jack." Then he shook his head once, and again. The gesture became continuous, disbelieving.

Because her lips were again beet red, and her skin was gray, and her grin was growing impossibly wide.

He turned and ran from her as fast as his fat legs would carry him down the wide, dark hallway.

~ * ~

"Yes, Mrs.
McCartle
," said the real-estate man, smiling into the telephone. "I'm absolutely positive that your home would sell very quickly. As you know, there have already been several offers, but since you were unwilling—"

"That is the past, Ernest." The real-estate man's name was Ernest Anders. "Actually, I'm planning a move abroad, possibly a permanent one, and of course would have no need of this house."

"Of course."

"I would be selling everything, I think. House and furnishings together."

"Really?" He was smiling again. "Mrs.
McCartle
, that makes the property very valuable indeed."

"I'm aware of that, Ernest."

"And might I ask your time frame for this move abroad?"

"Within the month. Possibly sooner."

"That's very quick. I'll have to come out and do an inspection and appraisal right away."

Silence. Then, "No, Ernest. That won't be necessary. If I'm not mistaken, you inspected and appraised barely five years ago. I don't think the house has degenerated appreciably since then."

"Certainly, Mrs.
McCartle
. However, the buyer's bank is going to insist on an inspection. I'm sure you're aware of that."

Silence again. Then, "Ernest, perhaps I'll have to get back to you on this. It occurs to me that there are other matters to attend to before I can seriously discuss a sale of this property."

"I understand."

"I'm sure you do. I'll be in touch."

My name is Jenny
Goodlow
," said the young woman at Ryerson's front door. She extended her hand; Ryerson shook it and invited her into the town house. She went in.

"We haven't met, have we?" Ryerson asked. The name
Goodlow
seemed familiar to him. He nodded and, before she could answer, went on, "Yes. Your brother's name is Sam, isn't it?" He had remembered the photograph that Bill Willis had shown him.

Jenny
Goodlow
said, "Yes," and looked confused. "But I thought that you and Sam had already met."

Ryerson sighed. "You're not the only one who thinks that." He gestured toward the living room. "Let's talk."

They went into the living room. Ryerson asked if she'd like some coffee; she said no and sat in a club chair near the window. She looked suddenly confused. "You
are
Ryerson
Biergarten
, aren't you?"

Ryerson nodded. "The only one in Boston." He was standing near her, at the window. There was another club chair close by and he sat in it.

Jenny
Goodlow
smiled a little, obviously embarrassed. "It's just that Sam talked about you once or twice and I assumed that you and he were friends."

Creosote appeared in the doorway that led to the dining room, regarded Jenny
Goodlow
with suspicion a moment, apparently decided that she wasn't a threat, and went and sat at Ryerson's feet. Ryerson reached down and scratched the dog's head. Creosote gurgled, wheezed. "Asthma," Ryerson said. "It's a fault of the breed."

Jenny
Goodlow
nodded vaguely and said, "My brother is missing, Mr.
Biergarten
."

"Call me Ryerson. Please."

She nodded again. She seemed very ill at ease and Ryerson cast futilely about in his head for ways to make her more comfortable. He quickly resigned himself to the fact that this was not a situation that could be made comfortable, so he chose simply to let her talk.

She shrugged. "If you didn't know him, I guess there's really no reason for me to be here, is there?" This seemed to be a prelude to getting out of the chair and leaving the house, but she merely looked questioningly at Ryerson, as if on the verge of speech, and stayed put.

Ryerson said, "I know that your brother's missing, Miss
Goodlow
. The police told me. They thought I could help—"

"You've helped them before, isn't that right?"

Ryerson nodded. "On a number of occasions, yes."

"And what did you tell them this time?"

Ryerson changed position in the chair but did not answer at once. Creosote glanced up at him, gurgled, lay down, and put his face on his paws, clearly aware that his master was becoming uncomfortable.

Ryerson said, "Well, they assumed, as you did, that I knew your brother. They found my name in one of his appointment books—"

"And you told them that you didn't know him?"

Ryerson changed positions in the chair again. She was
grilling
him, he realized. She was trying to trap him in a lie. He tried to read her, but her face was impassive, her large green eyes betrayed nothing. Ryerson said, "Clearly you believe that I
did
know him, Miss
Goodlow
, and clearly you believe that I'm keeping something from you. Isn't that right?"

"I knew my brother very well, Mr.
Biergarten
," she answered. "I trusted him. He spoke of you, and I assumed that he knew you." She paused. "I
don't
know you, however, do I?"

Ryerson sighed. "Why would I lie?"

"How can I answer that, Mr.
Biergarten
? If I don't know you, then I couldn't possibly judge your motivations—"

"I never met your brother," Ryerson cut in. There was a sharp edge of impatience in his tone. "The police showed me his photograph, and that was the first time I'd ever seen him. He'd written my name in his appointment book." A pause. "
I
can't help what he writes in his appointment book, can I?" He closed his eyes; he disliked becoming angry.

"I'm sorry, Mr.
Biergarten
—"

He heard her stand up. He opened his eyes, gestured for her to sit down again. "No. I'm sorry. Please stay. Perhaps I can . . . help you." He made the offer primarily because he wished to apologize.

She shook her head and looked icily at him. "No. If you didn't know Sam, then you can't help me." And with that, she left the house.

~ * ~

Sam
Goodlow
did not want to sleep but thought he had no choice. His body wouldn't let him stay awake. This concerned him. He thought it was proof that something was not right, and—as much as he disliked the idea—he supposed that he had better find a doctor before long and have a checkup.

He was sitting on the edge of his cot, and his hands were cupping the sides of the skinny mattress.

He glanced at the pillow. It looked inviting. It was fluffed and white, as if no one had used it. He whispered, "Too much sleep. Too much sleep." Life was passing him by. What was he accomplishing flat on his back, dead to the world? And why did he always feel
wet
? He glanced at himself. He didn't
look
wet.

With effort, he stood, glanced longingly at the pillow again, then crossed to his desk. He stood behind it, leaned forward, with his hands flat on the desk and his arms straight.

He didn't recognize his hands. They were too ... large? Too wide? Too pale? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. He was sure that they weren't his hands.

He shook his head quickly. What in hell was he thinking? Of course these were his hands. Whose hands were they if they weren't his?

He thought that they penetrated the desk. A quarter of an inch. Less. They were a part of the blond wood, one with the blond wood.

He straightened, suddenly frightened.

He needed to sleep.

He looked longingly again at the cot across the room.

~ * ~

At times, Rebecca
Meechum
thought she almost regretted what she had done to Sam
Goodlow
. If it hadn't been so
easy
to do it to him, if he hadn't
invited
it, if he hadn't let his guard down and become so vulnerable, then perhaps she would have regretted what she'd done. But people, like him, who were foolish enough to let themselves be used by people like her, deserved whatever they got. What was the phrase?—
There 's a sucker born every minute
. Sam was a sucker, and she was going to be ten thousand dollars richer because of it.

She didn't spend long thinking about what might have become of him. If he was dead, then it was too bad. But, hell, everyone died. Did it really matter when, or how?

She looked at the large
manilla
envelope on her kitchen table. It was sealed, and she had been warned not to open it. She wished the woman would come and pick it up. Having it around was too much temptation. Calling the woman was out, too, because she—Rebecca—had no idea what the woman's real name was, or where she lived. "The less you know, the better off we'll both be," the woman had said.

What a sticky situation this was turning into.

The man on the phone was clearly agitated. "Mr.
Biergarten
, I have a problem.
We
have a problem." The man spoke breathlessly, as if near panic. "I desperately need your help."

Ryerson asked the man's name.

"Jack Lutz," the man answered. "My wife's name is Stevie. We've read about you, we know about you—who in Boston doesn't? And I've talked to the police, of course. They're doing what they can, but it's not enough. They don't know where to begin, for God's sake—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lutz," Ryerson cut in, "but you'll have to tell me what this is about."

Silence.

"Mr. Lutz?" Ryerson coaxed.

"I thought you'd simply . . .
know
," Jack Lutz said, clearly astonished.

"It doesn't work that way," Ryerson said.

"But you're supposed to be psychic. Maybe I have the wrong person. Is there another Ryerson
Biergarten
in Boston?"

"No." Ryerson sighed. "I'm the only one."

Silence.

"If you could tell me why you're calling, Mr. Lutz, I can tell you if I can help."

A moment's silence. "It simply seems odd that I should have to tell you anything…" A pause. "Stevie's missing."

"Yes?" Ryerson coaxed.

"That's my wife. Stevie."

"And she's missing. Yes. Please go on."

"I wasn't going to call you, Mr.
Biergarten
. I really don't believe in any of this supernatural mumbo jumbo. But I'm desperate, and desperate people—"

"Where are you calling from?" Ryerson cut in; he wanted to get Lutz back to the point.