"Where am I calling from?" Lutz seemed surprised. "I'm calling from home. Is that important?"
"Did your wife disappear there? Was she at home when you last saw her?
"Not exactly." He paused. "Listen, why are you asking these questions? Have you decided to help us?"
"I've decided nothing, Mr. Lutz." Ryerson received phone calls about missing people at least once a week. "You say you've contacted the police?"
"That's right. They don't know where to begin. I
told
you that. I mean, there's someone out there at this very moment, but he's simply going over the same ground again and again—"
"The place where your wife disappeared, you mean?"
"Of course." Lutz paused. "Mr.
Biergarten
, I have to tell you that you're not filling me with optimism. You seem to be picking up nothing at all from me. I was hoping that you had at least read about Stevie's disappearance in the newspaper."
"No, Mr. Lutz."
"Don't you
read
the newspaper, Mr.
Biergarten
?"
The man was trying Ryerson's patience; Ryerson could hear the desperation in the man's voice, but he—
Ryersonhad
found that working with someone he disliked was a barrier to his psychic abilities. Ryerson said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Lutz, but you may have expected too much from me. Perhaps it's in your best interests, and in the best interests of your wife, to trust the police in this matter."
"That's probably good advice," Lutz said, and hung up.
~ * ~
Sam
Goodlow
thought,
Yes. It's true. It must be. I'm dead. Gone. Deceased Departed. Stiff Kaput.
But if that were really true, it wasn't so bad. He was comfortable. He was in familiar surroundings. He felt as if he had found exactly the right position for sleep, had eaten well and was sated, had no needs. What better way was there to be? No heaven, no hell. Only comfort and satiation for all that was left of time.
He wondered why he still had a body. Weren't bodies designed simply for the use of the spirit? And wasn't he simply spirit, now? So what was he doing with a body attached?
He wondered if it were someone else's body and he was possessing it. The idea frightened him. Someone else's consciousness, soul, and psyche could be lurking behind his. It was creepy. He shuddered.
Who was he, he wondered, and why was he dead?
Was
he dead?
Was he alive? If there were any real way of knowing, shouldn't
he
know? Was his name really Sam
Goodlow
, and, if so, what did it mean?
Was his hair really as red as it looked reflected in the window, or was that some trick of the light?
Could he be Irish?
What talents did he have that he might make use of now?
Now?
And if he had talents, had he always used them?
Did he dream?
Was he sleeping? Was he alive and sleeping? Dead and sleeping?
Why did he feel wet?
Were his eyes as green as they looked reflected in the window? Did he need to blink? If so, why? Was there a biological reason for it? Did he have a biology? Were there guts inside him? Could he bleed? Sneeze? Fall down and break something?
Was there anything to break?
Could he experience pain?
Pain?
Suddenly, he felt exhausted.
~ * ~
"I'm sorry I hung up like that," Jack Lutz said over the phone. "I . . . lose myself sometimes. I'm sure you understand, Mr.
Biergarten
."
Ryerson thought he heard the hint of an apology in Lutz's tone, but it was clear that the man was not accustomed to apologizing.
Ryerson said, "Is someone from the police department with you now, Mr. Lutz?"
"You mean right now? No. They've gone."
"Could you tell me the name of the officer assigned to you, then?"
There was a moment's pause, then Lutz said, "It's a woman. She's a lieutenant, I think. Tall woman, dresses well, attractive, but I'm afraid I don't remember—"
"Her name's Lenore Wilson," Ryerson cut in.
"Yes," Lutz said. "That's right."
"She's very capable, Mr. Lutz. I've worked with her on number of occasions—"
"She thinks that Stevie's been murdered, Mr.
Biergarten
. I think she even believes that
I
had something to do with it."
Ryerson gave a moment to silence. Then he asked, "Did you?"
"No." Lutz's answer was quick, without hesitation. "Stevie and I were on a walk, she went into a little . . . hunter's cabin, I guess you'd call it, and then she was gone. I
told
them that—the police—and they didn't believe me."
"Are you being charged?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Wouldn't they tell me if they were going to charge me, Mr.
Biergarten
?"
"How long has your wife been missing?"
A short pause. "Two days. She disappeared Wednesday morning. I called the police almost immediately."
"You looked for her?"
"Of course I looked for her. I tore that damned place part, Mr.
Biergarten
. I looked outside. I looked everywhere. Then I called the police and they came over right way."
"They didn't tell you that you had to wait forty-eight hours before filing a missing persons report?"
"Mr.
Biergarten
"—he sounded exasperated—"it wasn't s if she went out to the store and didn't come back. I was
with
her, for God's sake. She went into that hunter's cabin and she didn't come out. The cops thought that was pretty unusual. In retrospect, I suppose they thought I was lying—"
"Could you give me your address, Mr. Lutz."
Another short pause. "You're going to help me?"
"I'd like to have a look at this hunter's cabin myself, if that's all right."
Lutz said, "Of course it is," and gave Ryerson his address.
~ * ~
This, thought Stevie Lutz, was a very good place to be, this place of her childhood, and she did not stop to wonder how she had gotten here.
Being here
was gift enough.
Here was her mother and father, her little dog, her house in the country—a sad gray mist surrounded it—the pond she swam in, the clear blue sky, and the smells—hay newly mown, pine tar, and, underlying, the tangy smell of the earth itself, the odor of clay.
And there she was—twelve years old, cocky and swaggering in jeans and flannel shirt, looking tough and rural and able to take care of herself as well as anyone.
She frowned. Jack had come into her life during her twelfth year.
A woman appeared from the gray mist that surrounded the house. The woman walked quickly, purposefully, and as she approached, Stevie could see that her eyes were large, brown, and beguiling, and Stevie remembered the other woman who had also appeared from the mist, and had left her light-headed—that woman had been tall, black haired, large breasted.
This woman carried a book in her hand.
"Who are you?" Stevie said.
The woman did not answer. Her beguiling smile tightened. She still walked quickly, with purpose.
"Stay away from me!" Stevie shouted.
"It's so good you've come here to us," the woman said. She was within arm's reach, and the sad gray mist that surrounded the house had advanced with her so that now the house, the pond, the little dog, the twelve-year-old in jeans and flannel shirt, were gone.
"Stay away!" Stevie shouted.
But the woman walked into her. Through her.
“Nobody's going to go up there?" said the woman whom some knew as Violet
McCartle
to the big man standing in the archway between the living room and foyer. "Of course someone's going to go up there. When they inspect a house, they inspect everything."
The big man frowned. "So what you're saying is,
I
have to go up there, right?"
"Precisely."
He sighed. "I'd rather not do that. I mean, you know what's up there."
"Yes, I do. And I understand your reticence. But
you
put it there, against my wishes, so
you
have to bring it down and put it somewhere else."
"Like where?"
"That's not my decision, is it? I must say, however, that it was abominably stupid of you to bring it here in the first place."
"I figured this was the best place," protested the big man. "You wanted it to look like a disappearance."
"We've had this discussion before. I'm simply telling you that I want that thing moved before the week is out, is that clear?"
The big man looked miserable. "Sure. It's clear."
~ * ~
It took Jack Lutz and Ryerson twenty minutes to hike to the area of the hunter's cabin, where Stevie had last been seen. Lutz pointed at the roof, visible above the weeds. "There it is, Mr.
Biergarten
. It's not locked; at least I don't believe it is. It's possible that the police put some kind of lock on it, I don't know. If they did, then there's no way in." He paused. "I can't go over there. I'm sure you understand."
"I do," Ryerson said.
Lutz looked surprised. "Do you?" He squinted up at Ryerson because the sun was in his eyes. "I've got to get back to the house," he continued. He seemed very agitated. "I'm sorry, Mr.
Biergarten
. I can't stay here with you. You'll be able to find your way back, won't you?"
Ryerson said, "I'll be all right, Mr. Lutz. I'll be able to find my way."
"Of course you will," Lutz said vaguely. He glanced at the cabin's roof again, then, without another word, started back to his house.
~ * ~
Ryerson found that there was no lock, only a yellow ribbon marked CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER across the cabin's only door. He pushed the door open and stepped under the ribbon, into the cabin. The door swung shut behind him. He reached, pulled it open again, looked for a light switch. There was none. He pulled the door open all the way, so it stood against the front wall.
He noticed the smell, here. The smell of the ocean. Salt air. Fish. And, beneath it, a tangy, earthy smell that he couldn't place. The mixture of smells wasn't cloying or off-putting. It was unusual, out-of-place, and he thought it might not be a part of the atmosphere of the little structure at all. Perhaps it was wafting in from outside, although the ocean was several dozen miles east.
There were no windows here and Ryerson found this not only odd but discomforting. Perhaps this wasn't a hunter's cabin after all. Perhaps it was merely a storage shed.
Except for a chair, it was unfurnished and empty. The floor was made of dirt. He looked at it. The dirt—in what sunlight filtered in from outside—was very dark. He bent over, touched it, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. The dirt was smooth and soft, like pudding. There was no graininess to it.
Odd
, he thought.
A long rectangular patch of bright sunlight illuminated it and, ironically, made it difficult to see, because of the near total darkness in the rest of the place.
He got down on one knee and saw that there were no footprints in the dirt, not even his own.
He swept his hand lightly over it. Marks appeared in it from his fingers, but then, in moments, were gone, as if he were sweeping his hand over the surface of a pond.
He straightened. He felt dizzy; his footing was suddenly uncertain, as if he were on an invisible tightrope.
He needed to leave this place. He felt unsafe in it.
He lurched forward, toward the door, toward the daylight, but got nowhere. As he approached the open doorway—as he put one foot in front of the other—he got no closer to it. The doorway was nearly close enough to touch; he thought that he could
leap
through it. But he was stuck. His feet moved, he had forward motion, but he thought that he might as well be trying to move closer to a mirage.
He stopped moving. He was still dizzy, and he knew its source, now. Uncertainty. This place was an illusion—the walls, the doorway, the dirt. It existed only because he thought that it existed, because it
insinuated
itself on him.
It was a mirage, an illusion, and he was stuck in it. And whatever the reality was here, he was stuck in it, too.
Or it was holding him.
~ * ~
Sam
Goodlow
woke on his little green cot in his office on the south side of Boston and knew that he was dead.
There were no two ways about it. He was dead, and he was still on the earth, and regardless of the fact that things were not supposed to
be
this way, it was the way that things had turned out, and he knew—without knowing why he knew—that there was nothing he could do about it.