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  "My dog's sick," Ryerson told Tom McCabe. Creosote was curled up on Ryerson's lap, flat face buried in his paws.

  "Oh?" McCabe stood slightly and leaned over the table to look at Creosote. "Sorry to hear that. What's he? Old?"

  "No. He's just a pup. And he's sick. I'd better get him out of here." He pushed his chair back. The cafeteria had been at least half full during much of his discussion with McCabe. Now, it being close to 4:30, the mid-shift people were just about ready to go back to work after the afternoon break. News of the carnage in Building Nine's basement corridor had not yet broken out. A woman named Elvira Larson had found the body, and she was under sedation at The Park's hospital. The only other people who knew anything were the security people and the Rochester Police assigned to the case. There were rumors, of course, and they'd kept people talking. During his thirty minutes or so at the cafeteria, Ryerson had overheard bits and pieces of speculation as well as good advice: "Stay away from the lower levels," and "Carry a can of Mace," and "Stay in groups of twos and threes, that's what I say." And during his time there in the cafeteria, Ryerson had reminded himself that the chances were good that the murderer was there, too, at one of the tables, scarfing down a Twinkie, or playing cards, or reading the latest horror thriller.

  The 4:30 chimes sounded, and the cafeteria began to empty. Creosote started feeling better, Ryerson noticed, because the dog's sniffling and wheezing and deep, benign growling renewed itself.

  McCabe said, "Jesus, he sounds like he's going to die!"

  Ryerson shook his head. "No. He always sounds like that. When he's feeling good, anyway." He paused to stroke Creosote and tell him he was glad he was feeling better, all of which made him realize that he was growing awfully fond of the beast. "I say ‘wolf,' " Ryerson continued, picking up on their topic of conversation from earlier, "not ‘werewolf,' because this man, or woman, doesn't seem to have his mythology quite right." McCabe looked confused. Ryerson explained, "He's done what—three killings in the last week or so? That's right, isn't it?"

  McCabe nodded. "Yes. That's right."

  "And when was the last full moon?" Ryerson asked, then answered himself, "It was two weeks ago, Tom. The moon's been in wane ever since. And today—even that's important, Tom; this was a daytime killing; the moon's not really visible during the day, is it? I mean, you've got to look for it, you've got to look hard, and any ... supernatural influence it might have would be nullified—" He paused a moment to get back on his original train of thought. "But there is no—" Creosote cut loose with a particularly loud series of groaning gurgles. "There is no full moon, now," Ryerson continued. "And that's the crux of werewolf mythology. A man, or woman, is made into a werewolf by the influence of the full moon."

  McCabe sat back in his chair, shrugged. "Well, I know that, Rye. Everyone knows that."

  Ryerson nodded. "Yes. Everyone but our murderer."

  A uniformed cop appeared at the table. "Pardon me, Chief McCabe?"

  McCabe said, "Yes?"

  The cop said, "They've identified the body, sir."

  McCabe rolled his eyes. "Good Lord, boy, why don't you announce it over the P A system?! None of these people knows about this thing yet."

  The cop looked embarrassed and confused. "I don't understand, sir; there's no one else here."

  McCabe looked quickly about, saw that the cafeteria was empty, and apologized.

  "His name was Walt Morgan," George Dixon, head of security at The Park, explained. Dixon was a middle-aged man who drank too much and relished being what even his closest friend called "an overweight, out-of-shape, cynical bastard." He'd been a cop once, in Buffalo, but his drinking and his sloppiness had put the promise of an interesting if not brilliant career far behind him. Dixon's office was small and cramped, but strangely neat. McCabe and Biergarten stood in front of Dixon's desk while Dixon sorted through Morgan's file. "He was a manager in Emulsion Technology, Building Nine. Married, four kids, a Methodist; and if you're wondering about suspects, you've got your choice of maybe fifty people who worked under him. He was an asshole from the word go."

  Ryerson said, "Oh? How so?"

  Dixon looked suspiciously at him. "How's anybody an asshole, Mr. Burngarden?"

  "Biergarten," Ryerson corrected.

  "Whatever," Dixon said. "Some people are just assholes, plain and simple. Some people are nerds, some people are assholes, some people are jerks, some people are good ole boys—it's self-explanatory, Mr. Biergarten."

  Ryerson shifted the snorting Creosote from his right arm to his left and held his free hand out. "Could I see that file, please?"

  Dixon looked at McCabe, who nodded, then gave Ryerson the file. McCabe and Dixon had worked together several years earlier, when a short-lived spate of vandalism had erupted at The Park; it was an encounter that Dixon felt had put them on a friendly, first-name basis, though McCabe did his best to discourage it. He said to McCabe now, as Ryerson leafed through the file, "Who'd you say this guy is, Tom?"

  McCabe answered tersely. "He's a friend. He's a psychic investigator."

  Dixon's quick, toothy smile was the soul of incredulity. "A psychic investigator?! Jesus, Tom, I'm fucking impressed—"

  McCabe cut in, "Your reactions to Mr. Biergarten are none of my concern, Dixon—"

  Dixon's smile vanished.

  Ryerson said, "My dog has to relieve himself." He held up the employee file. "Can I borrow this overnight?"

  Again Dixon looked at McCabe. McCabe said to Ryerson, "Rye, I'm not sure that would be… politic. We usually have to get a warrant, ourselves, to take these things out of The Park—"

  Dixon interrupted, trying, Ryerson knew, to get a hand up on McCabe. "Can you get it back to me tomorrow, Mr. Biergarten?"

  "Yes," Ryerson said.

  Dixon shrugged. "Then knock yourself out."

  "Thanks," Ryerson said. "Now if you could tell me where the nearest exit is, my dog has to . . ."

  Dixon nodded toward the door. "Down the hallway, up the stairs, under the mural, out to Ridge Road."

  "Thanks," Ryerson said again, and left the office quickly, followed the narrow corridor to the Ansel Adams mural—transparency, which was behind him as he left The Park, so he didn't see it, then out to Ridge Road, where he put Creosote down, and where Creosote did what Ryerson, being psychic, had known he had to do.

  Chapter Six

  Greta Lynch was just getting off her shift, then. She usually used the Ridge Road exit, the one Ryerson had used, because she kept her four-year-old VW Rabbit in the south parking lot. But the Rabbit was in the shop today, so she was walking home and used the Lake Avenue exit instead. Mostly to get Douglas Miller off her back. "No, Doug, really, I'm just going over to Films Technology for a moment.”

  “Okay," he'd said, clearly unconvinced. "But why do I get the idea that you're trying to dodge me, Greta?" There had been a playful tone in his voice, but Greta knew that his feeling for her went beyond flirtation. Ever since the beginning of the month, when he'd been transferred to Emulsion Technology5-A from Emulsion Technology 5-C—where she'd had to deal with him only occasionally—he'd been walking her to her car in the south parking lot, even though it meant that he had to go back across Ridge Road, back past the personnel offices, and then through what seemed like miles of corridors to get to his own car in the north parking lot. Why he didn't merely park in the same lot as she, Greta wasn't sure; she supposed that his nightly "errand of mercy," as he'd once called it, "to protect you, Greta, from the muggers and thieves and rapists that prowl these streets after 4:30," was designed to illustrate the real depth of his affection for her.

  But tonight, even though she didn't have Doug Miller tagging along after her, she found that she did have the annoyance of having to walk past a number of police cars lined up on the Lake Avenue side of The Park, past what she knew were a dozen leering cops, and that made her feel very ill at ease. Deep inside, something else made her feel ill at ease, too. Somethin
g she couldn't define. Something that slipped away when she tried to get hold of it.

  She heard someone whistle, low. Why the hell did men have to whistle, for Christ's sake?! As if women were animals of some kind that were supposed to respond to a whistle, a nudge, a poke—a damned "errand of mercy." When she turned she saw a tall, heavily muscled cop in his middle thirties leaning against his car and nodding at her. She gave him the bird, quickly and efficiently. He smiled slyly. God, she said to herself, but I hate cops.

  She came to the corner of Lake and Ridge and stopped, waiting for the light. She looked to her right, west down Ridge Road, and saw Ryerson Biergarten tending to Creosote. He was a nice-looking man, she thought. Lord knew why he carried that ugly, disgusting mutt around with him.

  The light changed. She crossed the street, and fifteen minutes later was at her three-room apartment in a house on Fairview Heights off Lake Avenue.

  Ryerson had seen Greta, too, as she'd crossed the street. And something in him had made him watch her until she passed to the side of an ugly brick building that housed a store called "Unclaimed Freight." He thought she looked nice, and he had always enjoyed watching a good-looking woman. But there was something else, too. Something slippery and undefinable about her, but something very powerful, as well.

  McCabe had come up beside him as he watched her. "Do you know her?" Ryerson asked, nodding. Greta was a good hundred yards off then and nearing Unclaimed Freight.

  "Who?" McCabe asked.

  "Her," Ryerson said. Then the building hid her. "Never mind. She's gone."

  McCabe nodded at what Creosote had left on the sidewalk. "I'm afraid we've got laws against that, Rye," he said.

  Ryerson looked surprised. "What am I supposed to do—scoop it up?"

  McCabe shrugged. "Just thought I'd mention it. We like to keep our city clean, you know."

  For his stay in Rochester, Ryerson had taken a room at the Samuelson Guest House on Birr Street, near The Park and not far from Greta's apartment, though he was unaware of it. The room he rented was large, airy, and warm, which he appreciated, because he thought, for the middle of April, there was a decided nip in the air. He's promised the landlord to walk Creosote four times a day and feed him only dry food. "That canned stuff leaves such a smell," said Loren Samuelson, the very pale, very thin octogenarian widower, former pipe fitter and stevedore who'd been running the guest house for fifteen years. "I can't stand bad smells, Mr. Burgermeister." Ryerson didn't correct him. "I had to work with bad smells for forty years. Now I don't have to put up with 'em if I don't want to." This seemed to please the old man immensely. And then he'd added, "What'd you say you were in town for, Mr. Burgermeister?"

  Ryerson answered, "I didn't."

  "Oh." The old man thought a moment, grinned widely, secretively, and asked, "Well, do ya wanta tell me?"

  "No," said Ryerson, "I'd rather not."

  Samuelson nodded knowingly. "Okay, as long as it ain't illegal; and if it is, I don't want to know anyway, and you probably wouldn't tell me."

  "It's nothing illegal, Mr. Samuelson," Ryerson said. The old man nodded again and then excused himself to go back to his own room. "My stories are coming on," he explained.

  Ryerson's room was on the third floor of the guest house. Because the house had been built at the top of a slight incline, it offered, from the south-facing windows, a nice view of the Rochester skyline—Ryerson decided it was muted, but interesting—and from the north-facing windows, a view of Kodak Park itself. At night, its red brick walls lighted by a dozen stationary spotlamps, he thought it looked immense, monolithic, and dull, which had been his daytime impression of the place, too.

  He sat at an old three-drawer pine desk between the two north-facing windows and took Walt Morgan's employee file from his briefcase. He really didn't expect to find anything. He'd already decided that the killer was someone who killed solely for the pleasure of it, so whether Walt Morgan had one enemy or a hundred probably made no difference.

  He laid the file out on the desk, opened it, thumbed through it. All the while, Creosote grunted and snorted and wheezed up a storm as he hopped continuously on and off the twin bed at the opposite end of the room, a mangled soft plastic duck in his mouth. (This was another of Ryerson's attempts to keep the dog away from his socks but, like the rawhide bone attached to Creosote's collar, a failure. The dog had developed an uncanny ability to find the socks, wherever they might be—on the floor, on a chair, even in a closed suitcase, whose latches he'd taught himself to open, or in a dresser drawer, which he'd also learned to open—and, in Ryerson's absence, to happily chew them into oblivion. Ryerson wondered, watching the dog leap up on and down from the bed, if he had any whole socks left at all.)

  Suddenly Creosote, on the bed now, fell silent. The soft-plastic duck dropped from his mouth.

  "Something wrong?" Ryerson asked teasingly, and once again read a strong, numbing fear in the dog's brain. "Creosote? What's wrong, boy?" Ryerson got up, went over, sat on the bed beside the dog, stroked him, felt the dog shivering. "Good Lord, what's wrong, Creosote?" The dog urinated on the bed. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" The dog began to whimper loudly.

  Ryerson got up, went to the window that faced The Park, and studied the street and sidewalks three stories below, lighted well by newly installed street-lamps. It was a little past nine; there were a half dozen couples on the sidewalks, a few loners—two men, a woman, someone pulling a two-wheeled grocery cart, someone else who could have been a man or a woman (it was hard to tell from the clothes or the walk) walking well behind the woman pulling the cart. Ryerson said, as much to himself as to Creosote, "Is it one of them, fella? Is that what you're telling me?" He glanced back. "Huh? Are you giving me a warning, Creosote?" Suddenly he felt foolish, and he went back to the desk and gave Walt Morgan's file a thorough going over.

  At 9:30 he called Tom McCabe at his home.

  "Tom, it's me, Ryerson. Tom, I need to see your homicide files for the last year."

  "What for?"

  "For a pattern, of course."

  "Don't you think I've looked into that, Rye? Don't you think that occurred to me?"

  Ryerson said nothing. He'd watched more than a few people fall to embarrassment that day; now it was his turn.

  McCabe continued, "And there is no pattern. Not locally, at least. Maybe in Peoria, or Tucson, or Albuquerque there's a killer with the same M.O., but not in Rochester."

  Ryerson sighed. "Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, Tom. I assume you're in contact with other cities on this, then—"

  "You mean to find a killer with the same M.O.?

  Yes, Rye, we're looking into it. But it's not an overnight kind of thing, even in this marvelous computer age of ours—"

  Ryerson cut in, "How about the files on new employees, Tom? Have you checked those?”

  “What for?"

  "You mean you haven't checked them?"

  "No. What's the sense?"

  "Can you get hold of them quickly?"

  "Sure. With a warrant."

  "Get one, then. Okay?"

  "I'll see what I can do, Rye, but I can't promise anything."

  "Thanks, Tom." He hesitated a moment, then went on quizzically, "Tom, did I wake you?"

  He heard McCabe sigh. "It's okay. I had to get up to answer the phone, anyway."

  Ryerson smiled. "Sorry—" Another pause; he was reading something from McCabe, something strange and off key, something that he couldn't quite get a look at, as if he were trying to see movement in a darkened room. "Did I . . . disturb you, Tom?" he went on, hoping his tone and inflection said precisely what he wanted to say.

  McCabe shot back, "Hell, no, Rye. Forget it. I'll get those files for you, okay?"

  "Yeah. Thanks, Tom."

  "No problem," and McCabe hung up.

  At 7:30, two hours earlier, Greta Lynch had gone down to the first floor of the house at 8 Fairview Heights where she rented a three-room apartment. She saw Lind
a Bowerman, a single woman in her forties, the owner of the house, watching television in the big living room and stuck her head in. "I'm going out, Linda. Do you need anything?" Linda turned her head, smiled, said, "No, thanks. I shopped today."

  "Okay," Greta said. "Just thought I'd check. Do you think the drugstore's open now?"

  Linda checked her watch: "Sure. It closes at 9:00. What do you need? Some aspirin or something? I've got some aspirin. No sense going out if you don't have to; those streets ain't the safest place to be at night. Maybe where you come from they are, but not here."

  Greta smiled, pleased by the woman's concern. "No. There are just some . . . other things I need. Thanks." She turned, stopped, looked back. "Oh, can I borrow your little grocery cart, Linda?"

  "Sure," Linda said, waving the question away. "You don't even need to ask." She came forward, made a show of studying Greta's face. "You look a little flushed, Greta. If you have a fever, maybe you shouldn't—"

  Greta shook her head briskly. "No. It's nothing. I have a . . . sunlamp and I'm afraid I spent too long under it."