The Changing (The Biergarten Series) by T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong

at it.
    "Our murderer," Ryerson said, "doesn't know what he is. When he's doing a murder, anyway." Ryerson sipped his grapefruit juice, took a small bite of the toast, and glanced down at Creosote, who was again looking pleadingly at him. "No!" he said, more firmly this time. Then to McCabe, "When he's doing a murder, Tom, he thinks he's an animal—a wolf, a bear; I don't know. If he thought he was an armadillo he'd probably act like one. My point is; it's all simply a matter of belief. If we believe deep in our heart of hearts, down where we live, that we're a wolf, or a bear, or a mountain lion, then we can probably gather up immense reserves of strength just to keep that belief alive. To fill the role. To be what we believe we are ."
    "Yes," McCabe said, spreading orange marmalade on his toast, "I can understand that. I don't think it applies here, because I don't think any woman has the strength that this guy has—even in reserve, even to pump up her insanity." He took one then quickly another big bite of the toast and smiled as he chewed it.
    Ryerson said, "Well, for the record, Tom, I think you're wrong." A short pause. "Did you get that warrant I asked you about?"
    McCabe swallowed and asked, "For the files on new employees?"
    Ryerson nodded.
    "Yes," McCabe said, swiping at his lips with a napkin. "I got it. The files are being sorted now. You should have them by tonight."
    ~ * ~
    Douglas Miller said to Greta, "You look terrible, Greta."
    She said, "Well, you look like death warmed over," and sat wearily at her desk in Emulsion Technology. She pushed some papers around and leaned back in her chair, sighing. She folded her hands on her stomach. "Jesus," she breathed.
    "Hot date?" Miller asked and immediately regretted the question because he thought she'd see it as a come-on, which it was, though he didn't want her to know it just yet.
    "Yeah," she whispered, eyes on the ceiling, "hot date."
    "Anybody I know?"
    She glanced at him and shook her head slightly. "Doug, just can it, okay?"
    He'd been standing near her desk. He held his hands up, said "Okay," and went to his own desk, kitty-corner from hers in the small beige room. Greta thought he moved with a slight stiffness, as if he were aware of his muscles and didn't want them to show. That was her fault, she realized. When she'd known him only a week or so and had the idea that perhaps they could go out sometime, just for the hell of it, she'd let slip that he walked as if he were muscle-bound--which, of course, he was. He'd looked hurt, and she'd regretted saying anything, but ever since he had manifested a stiff, sexless walk that was unnerving.
    After a few minutes he said, a little squeamishly, "I didn't mean to pry, Greta."
    She shook her head. "And I didn't mean to snap your head off."
    "You didn't snap my head off."
    She managed a smile, though it was weak, and showed clearly that she was hurting under the skin. "Maybe you and I can . . . do something one of these days, Doug."
    His smile was quick, strong, and disbelieving: "Sure," he said. "Sure," and found himself tongue-tied.
    "Maybe," she suggested, "you can show me the nightlife in this city of yours."
    He nodded vigorously—a little too vigorously, he realized—so he stopped nodding and shrugged, which he thought was stupid, too. "Sure," he said again. "Anytime. You name the time, Greta. There's a place called The Manhattan. I think you'd like it"
    She cut in, "It sounds great, Doug. Really. I'll let you know." She stood, shakily. "For now, I think I'll go and throw up in the ladies' lounge." And that's precisely what she did.
    ~ * ~
    In a little town twenty miles south of the Pennsylvania border, near Erie, a middle-aged man and woman laid a wreath on the grave of their teen-age daughter, dead exactly two months. The man, whose name was Will Curtis, was wearing a heavy gray coat to protect himself from the mid-April chill and supported himself with a cane because of arthritis. He nodded sullenly at