The Changing (The Biergarten Series) (21 page)

"Thanks," the boy said and began to pedal away.

"Wait," Ryerson said, put a hand out and grabbed the handlebar.

The boy looked suddenly frightened. "I only got a couple a dollars, mister. You want it, you can have it—"

"No, please," Ryerson said. "I don't want to rob you. There was a man—" he nodded toward Lake Avenue—"down there. A tall man—"

"Yeah," said the boy. "I saw him. He looked like a scarecrow."

"Yes," Ryerson said; he wished to God that he could stop trembling. "Yes," he repeated. "Did you see where he went?"

"Uh-huh," said the boy, and didn't elaborate.

"Where?" Ryerson asked, a little too sharply, he realized, because the boy winced. "I'm sorry. Please. Where did the man go?"

"Into the church," the boy answered.

"What church?"

"At the corner. The church that burned. He went in there."

~ * ~

Before the night of August 16, 1975, the Church of St.
Januarius
at the corner of Birr Street and Lake Avenue had been one of Rochester's oldest, most venerable, and certainly one of its largest churches. Its massive gray stonework had been the pride of the neighborhood, and in its heyday the church had served a congregation that numbered nearly 3,000 people. On any given Sunday, it could have seated most of them.

But on that Saturday evening, August 16, 1975, a fire began in the basement of the church and spread quickly upward through the oak floors, the cherry pews, the walnut altar. The huge stained-glass windows melted from the incredible heat. The iron confessionals were reduced to great, black amorphous globs. And by morning, August 17, 1975, all that remained of the once-magnificent structure were its massive stone walls, its stone foundation, two dozen stone passageways that snaked maze-like through the cellar, and incredibly, the huge oak front doors. For years there was talk of rebuilding the church. Various money-raising schemes were hatched and plans drawn up, but these schemes and plans never reached fruition. And when Ryerson
Biergarten
got there, in pursuit of Douglas Miller, the remains of the Church of St.
Januarius
were less than a month away from demolition.

~ * ~

Ryerson approached the church from the street side, up the twenty wide stone steps to the great oak doors—the only wood in the building that had survived nearly unscathed the awful kiss of the flames—stopped there, and whispered to himself, "I'm a fool!" He meant it. Because he knew that if he were not a fool he'd have called Detective Andrews, or he'd have flagged down a passing patrol car—and indeed, one had passed on its way to Edgemont Street, which paralleled Lake Avenue, as he'd made his way to the church from the Samuelson Guest House—or, at the most, he'd have hidden somewhere near the church, waited for poor Douglas Miller to reappear, and
then
would have decided what to do next. But he knew what he was going to do. He was going to seek Douglas Miller out in that maze of stone passageways. He was going to follow the monster
underground
.

He knew the passageways were there because, for whole seconds at a time, he could see them through what served as Douglas Miller's eyes: he saw two vague, gray planes that were cut by the dark horizontals and verticals of doorways that had once led into rooms where church school was held, and benefit suppers eaten, and Bingo played. And Ryerson could hear, too, the slight, muted echoes of past events—the Bingo games, the suppers, the church school—which lingered for decades in places like this.

"Miller!" he called through the half-open front doors of the church. Beyond them a wide section of charred oak floor remained. Several yards to the right of the doors, a stone stairway led into the snakelike maze of passageways beneath. Again Ryerson called, "Miller!" but heard nothing. He sensed someone watching him from the street and turned his head. A short, thin, dark-haired man wearing horn-rimmed glasses was watching him with passing interest. The man called, "You'd best not go in there. It's dangerous. Damned kids!" Which was a reference to the fact that although the authorities regularly boarded up the doors, children in the area had consistently broken in.

"Yes," Ryerson agreed. Then he pushed on the doors, and with Creosote snorting in his arms, went into the ruined interior of the church.

B-three. That's B-three. . . . I-nineteen

And bless this man and this woman. . .

And make His face to shine upon thee

"Miller!" Ryerson called. He expected no answer. He expected that Miller—the creature which had once been Miller—might look up at him from the maze of passageways beneath, and that at the moment the creature looked up,
he
would see what
it
saw, and so would know in what part of the maze it was hiding.

What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. . . .

The muted echoes of past events came and went from Ryerson's mind like swiftly flying night birds.

Welcome to St.
Januarius
, Welcome to St.
Januarius
-

And if that were to happen, if he saw himself through this creature's eyes and knew then where it was hiding…

The lousy bum ate my chiffon pie but totally ignored the beans-

...
then
he would have to decide what to do next.

N-twenty-three; N-twenty-three!

"Miller!"

And it happened.

He saw himself at the lip of that narrow, charred section of oak floor; he saw Creosote. He saw a pale blanket of clouds above.

And he knew where the creature was in that maze. And he knew this, too: he knew that the creature wasn't
hiding
.

It was waiting.

B-eight, 0-forty-five, G-thirty-three: Bingo! Bingo!

"Shut up!" Ryerson screamed.

And from beneath, in the maze, he heard, "Greta!" in a voice that was torn, and piercing, and tremulous, like a tree splitting. "Greta, Greta, Greta," again and again, until it was little more than a dense screeching noise, a noise of fatal resignation:
This is done; this is done!
And at last nothing.

~ * ~

Ryerson saw the steps that led into the maze, and he took them quietly, Creosote silent in his arms. He heard behind him a heightened noise of traffic on Lake Avenue as people started their evenings at theaters and restaurants and shopping malls.

And when he reached the bottom of those stairs, he realized that he'd forgotten to take one awful fact into account: at night, in darkness that was several shades down from semi-darkness, as this place was, he was as blind as a bottom-dwelling fish. Sure, now and again glimpses of this place pushed fleetingly into his brain from the eyes of the creature he was pursuing. But his own eyes were all but useless here.

And what
, he asked himself,
am I going to do when I find him? If I find him?
And he answered almost at once,
I'm going to be his supper!
which made him grin tremblingly.

He called, "Mr. Miller, I can help you. I want to help you." It wasn't a lie. It was simply an embellishment, he supposed. He did want to help him; he simply wasn't sure
how
he was going to help him—that was a bridge he'd cross when he came to it. But wasn't this poor creature pretty much the same as the darkly laughable spook in the Vermont cellar who spent his existence shouting creative obscenities at whoever might be listening? And wasn't this creature essentially the same as

No, Ryerson answered himself. This creature was different. This creature had an overwhelming need, a consuming lust for Death gobbling it up.

And that's when Ryerson started backing away, toward the stone stairway he'd just come down. Because he'd realized, at last, that however noble his intentions might be, he was powerless to help the creature that called itself Douglas Miller. He might as well, he realized, have hoped to reason with a disease.

Then he saw himself briefly through that creature's eyes; he saw the tall, athletic body, the square, intriguing face, the quiet baggage that was Creosote under his arm; and he saw the trembling, the fear. And he saw it all with a harsh, black-and-white reality that was as jarring as a slap in the face.

Then it was gone. And the
smell
of the creature whose eyes he had used replaced it.

And he thought,
No pain! Please, no pain!

Creosote whimpered, snorted, growled deep in his throat. And the smell of the thing that had been Douglas Miller fell over him like black water.

No pain, please, no pain!

B-six, 0-sixty, I-sixteen

No pain, please

Turn, now, in your Catechism to the story of Lazarus—

"Mr. Miller, I can help you, I want to help you—"

The bum ate my chiffon pie but never touched the beans

Cresote
belched, snorted, growled.

Then fell silent.

Because the smell had dissipated. The creature that had called itself Douglas Miller had retreated. Into the maze. And Ryerson thought that if Creosote could have talked, he would have used one phrase to describe the reason for his momentary revival—"That disgusting smell!" he would have said.

"Mr. Miller!" Ryerson called. "I can help you, I want to help you," and he stopped backing away from the stone stairs that led up out of the maze and into the city.

This is it!
he thought.
This is it! It's time to do my job! It's time to help this creature!
And he moved blindly forward into the maze. And walked face first into a wall. He stepped back, instinctively turned slightly to the right, moved forward again, slowly, feet barely lifting from the stone floor. He had a pair of eyes to use, after all. He had the creature's eyes to use.

"Mr. Miller, let me help you. I'm here to help you!"

And in his mind's eye he saw Douglas Miller and Lila Curtis lying naked together. And he saw a strange dull glow come into Lila's eyes, as if something smoldered deep within her. He saw her head move quickly forward into Douglas Miller's shoulder, saw her head come back, saw blood there at her mouth, heard Douglas Miller say, "
Jees
, what'd you do
that
for?"

Again he walked face first into a wall; he felt a gash open on his cheek. He winced, let a small grown of pain out, and supposed, distractedly, that that would probably be the very smallest pain he'd experience that evening.

Then, like an old coat being thrown over him, the suffocating smell of the creature in the maze with him was around him again, and again Creosote snorted in disgust.

But then fell silent. And still.

And in his mind's eye, Ryerson saw himself standing blind, as if naked, as if offering himself. And he saw, too, the corridors stretching to his left and right, corridors he could not have seen with his own eyes.

And with a speed borne of panic and desperation, he turned to his right and ran hard.

And through the eyes that watched him, he saw himself running, saw the wall coming fast, saw the corridor branch yet again to the right and left, turned left, saw himself falling closer to the creature in hungry pursuit, heard himself whispering raggedly, already out of breath, "Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus!"; heard around him the louder echoes of the past pushing at him, saw the soles of his shoes rising high from the stone floor as he ran, saw the back end of Creosote, his own elbows pumping, his shirt collar, the back of his neck--

He smelled the sickening, suffocating odor of the creature, heard its own thudding footfalls-

AT HIGHLAND HOSPITAL

Tom McCabe said, "He was our murderer, I know that." He nodded at the room's one window. "Close the curtains, would you? It's too damned bright. "

Ryerson
Biergarten
went over to the window, closed the curtains. He sat down in a pale green vinyl armchair that he'd placed near the bed, bent forward, lowered his head, shook it, sighed, and looked up at Tom McCabe, who was regarding him quizzically.

McCabe said, "What's on your mind, Rye?"

Ryerson smiled ruefully. "Him. Our murderer. Douglas Miller. He's on my mind, Tom." He paused, sat back, let his hands dangle over the front of the arms of the chair. "Werewolf," he whispered, and sighed again.

"Werewolf, my ass!" McCabe said.

"Yes," Ryerson agreed.

"I wish to God I hadn't
seen
anything, Rye—it'll stick with me the rest of my life. I think I can look forward to four decades worth of bad dreams."

Ryerson nodded. "It took the form that was convenient, Tom. It poked around inside Doug Miller and it found that . . . idea, that myth, that fear. And it fed on it, and moved with it, while it grew. And I guess—" He stopped, faltered, searched for the right words, went on: "I guess this is like . . . running in the dark, Tom"—he smiled—"and maybe I'm way out in left field, but I'd say that Miller fought it, for a while. I'd say he knew there was something very wrong, and he tried hard to hold on to what humanity was left in him. But hell, it was probably like trying to fight an orgasm. After a while, you have to give in to it. So for a month, two months, he gave in to this thing whenever the opportunity presented itself. 'Full Moon' equals 'Werewolf,' so whenever he saw that mural at The Park, it was an excuse to let the thing inside him take over."