The Changing (The Biergarten Series) by T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong Page A
Authors: T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong
Tags: Horror
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the grave and said to the woman, his voice slight and creaking, "All her life she was a good girl, Frances. She was a nice girl. She ran away, but she came back to us. She was a nice girl."
But Frances said nothing. Frances believed otherwise, and Frances was the soul of honesty, even with herself. She let her husband rattle on:
"It's impossible . . . it's impossible to protect ourselves totally from the . . . evils. . ." He fought back a tear; it returned and slid down his weathered cheek. He finished, ". . . the evils of this world, Frances."
She nodded. "Yes," she said. She knew it was the truth.
He took her hand and said again, "The evils of this world." He thought a moment. "The evils of this fucking world!"
"Yes," Frances said.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For using the 'F' word here. In front of Lila."
She squeezed his hand. "It doesn't matter. She hears no words at all." And that, Frances thought, surely was the truth, thank God.
~ * ~
Ryerson had a list of names and places. It was a fairly long list, because The Park's new employees—transferees as well as people who'd joined the company within the past two years (a period of time he'd picked purely from intuition)—comprised a crowd that would fill a good-sized high-school gymnasium. He'd whittled that list down—again, almost purely by intuition—to sixty-three names. Greta Lynch was on that list. So was Jack Youngman, who'd been transferred from Detroit eighteen months earlier. And George Dixon.
Of those sixty-three names, twelve had cities or towns in common. George Dixon, for instance, came from Buffalo. So did a woman named Renee Jacqueline Borodin, who worked as a freelance model for the company. Greta Lynch came from Erie, Pennsylvania, and so did a man named Bill Clark, one member of Kodak's army of accountants. What Ryerson wanted McCabe to do was to check each of those cities or towns for murders or attempted murders that involved an M.O. similar to that of what was now being dubbed "The Park Werewolf." But when he tried to call McCabe—it was April 18th, two days after Leonard Pitcher's murder—he found that McCabe had been "called away from Rochester on an unexpected emergency."
Ryerson, thinking, What other kind of emergency is there? asked, "To where? What city? This is very important."
"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information," answered the lieutenant who had taken his call.
Ryerson sighed. Creosote, at the other end of the room on the bed, let out a huge and extended belch. "Sorry?" said the lieutenant, sounding offended.
"Nothing," Ryerson said, "that was my dog." A brief pause. "Could you tell me when he'll be back, please? This is in regard to The Park Werewolf."
"I don't know," said the lieutenant. "As I said, this was in the nature of an unex pec ted emergency, so his estimated time of return is information to which none of us is privy."
"Could I talk with Detective Bill Andrews then, please?"
"I'm sorry, but Detective Andrews is not available. Perhaps if you could tell me , sir, the nature of your business with Chief McCabe?"
"Yes," said Ryerson, thinking that surely McCabe had told most of the people involved in the investigation about him. "My name's Ryerson Biergarten ; I'm a psychic investigator. I'm working with Tom, as you probably know, and I need access—"
"What sort of investigator did you say you were, Mr. Biergarten ?"
"Psychic. I'm a psychic investigator."
"Oh?" A long pause; then, "And you say you're working with Chief McCabe on The Park Were wolf case?"
"Yes, that's right. He must have told you—" Creosote belched again, as loudly as before.
"Sir," said the lieutenant wearily, "are you trying to make werewolf noises?"
"No, no—I told you, that's my dog; he's a Boston bull terrier, that's the kind of noise that Boston bull terriers make."
"Yes, sir." Another long pause. "Sir, did you want to confess?"
"Confess?! Oh, for God's sake—"
"Because if you do, I'll have to put you on
But Frances said nothing. Frances believed otherwise, and Frances was the soul of honesty, even with herself. She let her husband rattle on:
"It's impossible . . . it's impossible to protect ourselves totally from the . . . evils. . ." He fought back a tear; it returned and slid down his weathered cheek. He finished, ". . . the evils of this world, Frances."
She nodded. "Yes," she said. She knew it was the truth.
He took her hand and said again, "The evils of this world." He thought a moment. "The evils of this fucking world!"
"Yes," Frances said.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For using the 'F' word here. In front of Lila."
She squeezed his hand. "It doesn't matter. She hears no words at all." And that, Frances thought, surely was the truth, thank God.
~ * ~
Ryerson had a list of names and places. It was a fairly long list, because The Park's new employees—transferees as well as people who'd joined the company within the past two years (a period of time he'd picked purely from intuition)—comprised a crowd that would fill a good-sized high-school gymnasium. He'd whittled that list down—again, almost purely by intuition—to sixty-three names. Greta Lynch was on that list. So was Jack Youngman, who'd been transferred from Detroit eighteen months earlier. And George Dixon.
Of those sixty-three names, twelve had cities or towns in common. George Dixon, for instance, came from Buffalo. So did a woman named Renee Jacqueline Borodin, who worked as a freelance model for the company. Greta Lynch came from Erie, Pennsylvania, and so did a man named Bill Clark, one member of Kodak's army of accountants. What Ryerson wanted McCabe to do was to check each of those cities or towns for murders or attempted murders that involved an M.O. similar to that of what was now being dubbed "The Park Werewolf." But when he tried to call McCabe—it was April 18th, two days after Leonard Pitcher's murder—he found that McCabe had been "called away from Rochester on an unexpected emergency."
Ryerson, thinking, What other kind of emergency is there? asked, "To where? What city? This is very important."
"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information," answered the lieutenant who had taken his call.
Ryerson sighed. Creosote, at the other end of the room on the bed, let out a huge and extended belch. "Sorry?" said the lieutenant, sounding offended.
"Nothing," Ryerson said, "that was my dog." A brief pause. "Could you tell me when he'll be back, please? This is in regard to The Park Werewolf."
"I don't know," said the lieutenant. "As I said, this was in the nature of an unex pec ted emergency, so his estimated time of return is information to which none of us is privy."
"Could I talk with Detective Bill Andrews then, please?"
"I'm sorry, but Detective Andrews is not available. Perhaps if you could tell me , sir, the nature of your business with Chief McCabe?"
"Yes," said Ryerson, thinking that surely McCabe had told most of the people involved in the investigation about him. "My name's Ryerson Biergarten ; I'm a psychic investigator. I'm working with Tom, as you probably know, and I need access—"
"What sort of investigator did you say you were, Mr. Biergarten ?"
"Psychic. I'm a psychic investigator."
"Oh?" A long pause; then, "And you say you're working with Chief McCabe on The Park Were wolf case?"
"Yes, that's right. He must have told you—" Creosote belched again, as loudly as before.
"Sir," said the lieutenant wearily, "are you trying to make werewolf noises?"
"No, no—I told you, that's my dog; he's a Boston bull terrier, that's the kind of noise that Boston bull terriers make."
"Yes, sir." Another long pause. "Sir, did you want to confess?"
"Confess?! Oh, for God's sake—"
"Because if you do, I'll have to put you on
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