The Changing Page 11

  That was crushing her seven-week-old kitten, Leopard, underfoot in the middle of the night, in the dark, on her way back from pestering her parents for another glass of water (the fifth glass of water that evening). She'd tried to hide the fact of the kitten's death, of course, because she felt sure she'd murdered it in a fit of temper after her father had yelled "Go back to bed, for Christ's sake!" So, trying hard to keep her whimpering at whisper level, she had taken the kitten's limp body down to the garage, found a small cardboard box, put the kitten in it, taken the box to the side of the garage, where the ground was soft from rain splattering over the gutterless edge of the roof, and had buried it, using her hands as a shovel.

  With the passage of time, the kitten's death had indeed, in her mind, become a murder.

  The dirt that had caked her hands and fingernails had become the kitten's blood.

  Its burial—which was discovered several years later, by a later owner of the house—became her "awful secret." And if someone had asked her—Greta Lynch, twenty-six-years-old, vivacious, intelligent—what that awful secret really was, she would have been stumped for the details. She would only have mumbled the catchwords of her guilt: murder, blood, deception.

  Ryerson Biergarten was getting angry. He didn't like it when he got angry, both for the usual reasons that people dislike their own anger—because they often say and do things that make them look like fools, and because anger is a very wearying emotion—and also because when he got angry, his mind opened up wide and hungrily, and a flood of psychic garbage rushed in from whomever happened to be near him.

  That's what was happening to him now, as he tried—so far in vain—to get the admitting nurse to tell him who the man he knew only as "Mr. Ashland" really was.

  "Listen, Miss"—he checked her nametag again—"Belgetti, the man may be a suspect in the Kodak Park murders—"

  "Sir, I've told you a half dozen times that whether or not he is a suspect in anything is not at issue here. Unless you can show me some authority—" And as Ryerson listened to her he heard, as a kind of whispered, psychic backdrop from the small crowd that had gathered: Well, who the hell does he think he is? and What's that dog smell? and Nurse has got big tits; huh, huh! and Hospitals, hate 'em, hospitals! and Like a virgin, virgin, virgin . . . And that mass of input—some of it coherent, some of it not, but all of it as distracting as a bad traffic accident—made it almost impossible, Ryerson knew, for him to appear as anything other than a lunatic bystander.

  "Have you found out his name yet, Miss Belgetti? Please—can you tell me that, at least?"

  Wouldn't mind pushin' on those honkers, yeah, huh, huh! . . . Doctors earn too much, anyway .. . What the hell is that smell of dog?

  "Sir, I'm afraid there are other people waiting to be taken care of, so if you don't mind—"

  Yeah, I'll knock your freakin' block off, fella!

  Ryerson turned his head quickly, saw a tall, muscular, middle-aged man wearing a shit-eating grin. Yeah, you! He turned back to Nurse Belgetti. "Just his name. Please. Can you tell me his name?" His voice was quivering with anger now. "All I want is his name, Nurse Belgetti. Do you think you can handle that?" And he felt a hand on his shoulder. Don't give me no . . . Don't give me any trouble .. . I don't want no . . . any trouble! He heard, "Don't give me no trouble here. We don't want any trouble, Mister." He turned, saw the same security guard that had run after "Mr. Ashland." The security guard reiterated, "We don't want no more trouble, sir. This is a hospital, not a gymnasium."

  Ryerson shook off the man's, grip. "Oh for God's sake, I know it's not a gymnasium!" He turned back to the nurse, sensed the security guard's hand going to his gun.

  God, he's gonna shoot 'em!

  I'll honk those honkers for ya, baby, yeah, I will!

  Ryerson turned quickly, urgently back to the security guard. "Don't do it!" he hissed. The security guard backed up a step, as if in fear. Ryerson turned once more to Nurse Belgetti. He took a breath and nodded toward the big beige couches that cluttered the lobby. "I'll be over there, Nurse Belgetti. I want you to call the head of admitting. I want to talk to him. Or her." And he turned sharply and went to one of the couches.

  As he sat and waited, he wondered two things: First, he wondered why his "gift," as so many people called it, was not more in his control, why it seemed so random and unfocusable—even under self-hypnosis, when the images were clearer, granted, but still needed a lot of interpretation. Why, for instance, in his anger just minutes ago did he get random thoughts from the crowd around him, but nothing at all from Nurse Belgetti? It was a phenomenon he'd encountered before, and the only conclusion he'd come to was that emotion blocked emotion (and take your pick of emotions—anger, sadness, love, hate), though he wasn't at all sure why.

  Secondly, he realized that the man who called himself "Ashland" had presented a psychic picture that was essentially opaque, as if he—Ryerson—had been trying to look into a river that was choked with pollution, and anything floating even inches below the surface was rendered invisible. It was, he realized, the same sort of barrier he often encountered when he tried to read animals. Cats especially.

  "Mr. Biergarten, is it?"

  He climbed out of his reverie, glanced up at an officious-looking middle-aged woman wearing a gray business suit. "I'm one of your fans, Mr. Biergarten. I read Conversations with Charlene." She extended her hand; Ryerson stood, shook it, and smiled amiably. The woman added, "And I'm really very sorry for the trouble here."

  "I'm helping in the investigation of The Park Werewolf—" Ryerson began.

  She cut in, "Yes, I know. Any luck so far?"

  He shook his head. "No, Miss, Mrs.—" She had no name tag; the name "Denise' swam into his consciousness.

  "Mrs. McCurdy," she said.

  "Is your first name Denise?"

  She shook her head, smiled; "No. Nice try, though. My husband's name is Dennis." A quick pause. "You want the name of the man you were chasing, is that right?"

  "Yes. I know him only as Mr. Ashland."

  "And what makes you think that's not his real name?"

  He smiled. "A hunch."

  She nodded. "His name is Douglas Miller. Middle initial `A' for `Ashland.' You can go and see him now; he's in Emergency Room Five." She nodded to indicate a corridor to her right. "Down there, Mr. Biergarten."

  In Edgewater, the round-headed adolescent with the small oval eyes that looked as if they never blinked stood over the body of Joanna Wilde. She lay on her back, legs pointing upward, arms spread wide, at the bottom of the stairway. She had two knitting needles sticking out of her chest; one on the right, one on the left, both stuck way in so only an inch or so was visible beyond the blood-soaked yellow housedress.

  "Mom?" said the round-headed adolescent, half urgently, as if he were a passenger in a car she was driving and he was warning her about an upcoming icy patch of road. "Mom?" he said again. And then he began to change; his chin wrenched back into the shape—with a little cleft in it that was peculiar to Larry Wilde and no one else; the mouth wormed back into the mouth that was only Larry Wilde's. No pain attended this transformation. It was quick and smooth, like water sloshing about. Then the eyes changed, the forehead, the hair, the cheekbones. Four inches were added: one at the ankle bones, three at various places on the spine. And finally, Larry Wilde reappeared. And Larry Wilde screamed, "My God! My God! Help us, help us, help us!" as he vaulted down the stairs past his mother's body and out into the late-afternoon gloom of a coming storm.

  Sure, George Dixon was thinking. Sure, I'm The Park Werewolf. The cops wouldn't be tailing him otherwise (and having once been a cop himself, he could easily spot a tail). Where there's smoke there's…

  And so what if he didn't remember anything?! Who'd want to remember something like that?! Slam, barn, thank you, ma'am! Rip the head off, tear out the tongue, have your fun. Then forget it.

  Sure. Like when he'd been in 'Nam. Plenty of stuff he did there he'd j
ust as soon forget. And nearly had forgotten now—so many years later. Sure. You forget. You try to forget. You push the shit back where it doesn't smell so bad and where it's not so noticeable. Sure.

  He was The Park Werewolf.

  He was the lunatic who went around tearing people up.

  He put their tongues in his lunch pail, for Christ's sake.

  He was The Park Werewolf! So what was he going to do about it? Turn himself in? Tear up a few more people, and then turn himself in?

  Maybe, he decided, maybe for now he'd have some lunch and think about it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AT STRONG MEMORIAL HOSPITAL: EMERGENCY ROOM 4

  And there, thought Douglas Miller, was the best evidence of all—the evidence that he couldn't yet share with her, but that he would share in time—the evidence of his faithfulness. The evidence of his fidelity to her, even though she wasn't yet his.

  His fidelity not only in the fact that he'd kept himself clean for her (even when he'd had that little runaway in the car two months earlier, and they were going at it so hot and heavy—damned little bitch bit him, he remembered—and he'd actually stopped, had actually pulled out of her), but also that he was keeping her secret. Her awful, nightmarish secret.

  "Mr. Miller?"

  And that was the real proof of his love, wasn't it? That he'd keep her secret forever! No matter what they might do to him, he'd keep her secret. Let her go on killing; what did it matter? Everyone died sooner or later.

  "Mr. Miller? I'd like to talk with you."

  Death was just and fair; death was democratic. Death was peace. And it came to everyone; better that it came through her, from that marvelous body, through those moist lips, than through accident or disease.

  "What's wrong with him, doctor?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Biergarten. He was fine a few moments ago, before you came in."

  "Please talk to me, Mr. Miller."

  "Greta?" Miller said.

  "No. Ryerson Biergarten. I'd like to talk with you, Mr. Miller."

  "Greta."

  Like dark water, Ryerson thought. His mind's like dark water—it's opaque, impenetrable. "Was it Greta you were telling me about two weeks ago?"

  Miller said nothing.

  "Talk to me, please!"

  Still, Miller said nothing. He was on his back and was wearing a white hospital gown. His eyes were on the ceiling, his gaze steady, unblinking.

  "Tell me about Greta," Ryerson coaxed. And for the barest fraction of a moment, the dark water cleared and Ryerson saw . . . His brow furrowed. He wasn't sure what he saw, had seen, because then it was gone. A woman's face, he guessed, but it was Picassoesque, a mass of bright colors and harsh angles—eyes wide, nostrils flaring, she looked for all the world like a strange, angular horse. Ryerson thought that that was a very odd way for a man to see a woman, even in his imagination. He repeated, "Tell me about Greta, Mr. Miller."

  "I love Greta," Miller whispered.

  "Yes. Good. Why do you love her?"

  "And I will"—Miller started getting an erection; the gown in the area of his groin began to lift, like some hibernating animal waking slowly under a blanket of snow—"I will keep her secret. I love her."

  The doctor said to a nurse standing by, "Throw something on that, would you?" meaning a blanket or a sheet, because, Ryerson knew, the doctor, for one reason or another, did not want that distraction.

  "Throw something on what, Doctor?" the nurse asked.

  The doctor's eyes rolled. He nodded at the abundant evidence of Miller's now-complete erection. "That!" he said.

  The nurse looked. "What did you want me to throw on it, Doctor?" She paused very briefly. Ryerson read embarrassment and confusion in her, but also a hint of titillation and amusement. "Cold water or something?"

  Ryerson said, smiling despite himself, "No. I think he means a sheet, nurse."

  And the nurse said, still as if confused, "Well, sure, but it'll still be there, won't it? I mean, we'll still see it."

  The doctor said, "Oh come now, nurse—"

  And Ryerson thought, That's a setup if I ever heard one!

  But it was Miller who came. Hard and long. So hard and long, in fact, that Ryerson, who knew something about physiological reactions to orgasm, began to worry about Miller's heart. And his throat, too. Because Miller was making a hell of a lot of noise. The same sort of noise, in fact, that Creosote made most of the time—a deep growling, hacking sound, but much louder, deeper and more self-involved than Creosote could ever hope for.

  Ryerson glanced at the doctor, who was clearly trying very hard to retain the facade, at least, of professional self-control.

  The nurse, at the other side of the bed, was grimacing, as if at some distasteful joke.

  And Miller, after what seemed like several minutes—though Ryerson knew this was impossible; even one minute's worth of orgasm would probably kill most men—was at last quieting. And when he was quiet, when he'd fallen into a quick sleep, although his breathing remained labored for some time, the doctor glanced quizzically at Ryerson and said, "That was amazing. That was just simply amazing. I don't believe I've ever encountered anything—in my research," he added hastily, "quite like it." He looked at the nurse. "Nurse, did you keep track of the time that Mr. Miller was experiencing that orgasm?"

  The nurse looked flustered and put-upon. She shook her head; "No, I'm sorry, Doctor—I didn't think—"

  The doctor turned quickly to Ryerson. "How about you, Mr. Biergarten?"

  Ryerson shook his head. "No, but I'd guess it was less than a minute. These things don't—"

  The doctor cut in, "It was longer than a minute. It was two minutes, anyway. Maybe three. Good Lord, that's simply impossible." He looked at Miller, still asleep, breathing heavily. He leaned over, put a stethoscope to Miller's chest, listened for a few seconds, straightened. "His heartbeat's slightly erratic; nothing to worry about. But my God, the man should have no heartbeat at all after that—"

  The nurse gasped. Ryerson looked at her, then looked at the spot she was pointing at so stiffly—the area below Miller's waist, where the gown was just now becoming stained with a milky-reddish excretion that was spreading quickly, moving outward from Miller's pubic area like a tide, and promising to stain most of the lower half of the gown before it was done.

  The doctor wasted no time. He ordered Ryerson out of the room, then as Ryerson was leaving, barked at the nurse, "Did you get his blood type?"

  "Of course," she answered. "It's A negative. We've got some on hand—"

  "Good," the doctor said, "He's going to need it—" Which was the last that Ryerson heard before he left the room.

  Miller was released three hours later, which surprised the hell out of Ryerson, who'd been waiting in the hospital lobby for word about Miller's condition.

  "What do you mean he's been released?" he said to the admitting nurse—the same Nurse Belgetti who'd refused to give him Miller's real name several hours earlier. "The man's . . ." The phrase A basket case came to him, but he found it distasteful, so he said, "The man's in no condition—"

  "Mr. Biergarten," Nurse Belgetti interrupted, "are we going to have another go-around here? I am telling you what I've been told by people who have no need or desire to lie to me, and that is that Mr. Miller was released twenty-five minutes ago. He was ambulatory; he was in control of his faculties; he could make decisions for himself. Under those conditions, we have no right to keep any patient against his will."

  Ryerson looked at her for several moments. He wanted to say, Hey, I like you. I really do! Thought there were probably better times and better conditions under which to get acquainted with Nurse Belgetti, and said merely, "Thanks. You wouldn't know where he went, would you?"

  She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly, impatiently. "Now why," she said, "would I have that information?"

  He tried to call McCabe at his office but was told by the same lieutenant who'd
given a hard time weeks earlier that McCabe had taken the day off. "Touch of the flu, I believe, Mr. Biergarten."

  "Then he's at home?"

  "Yes."

  "Thanks."

  "Uh—Mr. Biergarten?—I'm sorry, about that last time I talked to you. Tell me, are you really psychic?"

  "No," Ryerson answered wearily. "I get hunches. Everyone gets hunches. Thank you, lieutenant." He started to hang up, heard the lieutenant hurrying on about "a horse at Aqueduct," then said, interrupting, "I'm sorry, I don't play the horses; I only play the tuba," which made him grin, and hung up. Have to remember that one, he told himself.

  McCabe looked like hell. His color was a light grayish-pink, his eyes looked like half-squashed cherries, and his breath smelled like a mixture of cold medicine and old straw. He was dressed in a huge red-and-black checkered robe, and when he answered his door in response to Ryerson's knock, he had a glass of what looked to Ryerson like weak tea in hand.

  "Jesus," Ryerson said, "you really are sick, aren't you?"

  "God, yes," McCabe groaned. He motioned for Ryerson to come in. "I feel like I look, Rye."

  Ryerson quipped, "I hope not, Tom," and followed him into the den; they sat in the same big wing chairs they'd used before.

  "Got this from my nephew," McCabe explained. "Little twerp sneezed right in my damned face a couple days ago. Had 'the croup,' they said, said I'd probably be all right. I think I'll sue." He paused. "Where's your little dog, what's-his-name?"

  "Creosote. He's with the owner of the place where I'm staying." Ryerson paused. "Tom, I went to see Greta Lynch today at Strong Memorial."

  McCabe took a long, slow breath, let it out slowly, shook his head. "Rye, you're going to get into trouble pulling that crap. I admit she was damned lucky"—he paused, hacked a little, drank some of his weak tea, went on—"damned lucky you went to her place, and damned lucky you got that . . . feeling, or whatever you call it—"