Goodlow's Ghosts by T.M. Wright Read Free Book Online

for me to be here, is there?" This seemed to be a prelude to getting out of the chair and leaving the house, but she merely looked questioningly at Ryerson, as if on the verge of speech, and stayed put.
    Ryerson said, "I know that your brother's missing, Miss Goodlow . The police told me. They thought I could help—"
    "You've helped them before, isn't that right?"
    Ryerson nodded. "On a number of occasions, yes."
    "And what did you tell them this time?"
    Ryerson changed position in the chair but did not answer at once. Creosote glanced up at him, gurgled, lay down, and put his face on his paws, clearly aware that his master was becoming uncomfortable.
    Ryerson said, "Well, they assumed, as you did, that I knew your brother. They found my name in one of his appointment books—"
    "And you told them that you didn't know him?"
    Ryerson changed positions in the chair again. She was grilling him, he realized. She was trying to trap him in a lie. He tried to read her, but her face was impassive, her large green eyes betrayed nothing. Ryerson said, "Clearly you believe that I did know him, Miss Goodlow , and clearly you believe that I'm keeping something from you. Isn't that right?"
    "I knew my brother very well, Mr. Biergarten ," she answered. "I trusted him. He spoke of you, and I assumed that he knew you." She paused. "I don't know you, however, do I?"
    Ryerson sighed. "Why would I lie?"
    "How can I answer that, Mr. Biergarten ? If I don't know you, then I couldn't possibly judge your motivations—"
    "I never met your brother," Ryerson cut in. There was a sharp edge of impatience in his tone. "The police showed me his photograph, and that was the first time I'd ever seen him. He'd written my name in his appointment book." A pause. " I can't help what he writes in his appointment book, can I?" He closed his eyes; he disliked becoming angry.
    "I'm sorry, Mr. Biergarten —"
    He heard her stand up. He opened his eyes, gestured for her to sit down again. "No. I'm sorry. Please stay. Perhaps I can . . . help you." He made the offer primarily because he wished to apologize.
    She shook her head and looked icily at him. "No. If you didn't know Sam, then you can't help me." And with that, she left the house.
    ~ * ~
    Sam Goodlow did not want to sleep but thought he had no choice. His body wouldn't let him stay awake. This concerned him. He thought it was proof that something was not right, and—as much as he disliked the idea—he supposed that he had better find a doctor before long and have a checkup.
    He was sitting on the edge of his cot, and his hands were cupping the sides of the skinny mattress.
    He glanced at the pillow. It looked inviting. It was fluffed and white, as if no one had used it. He whispered, "Too much sleep. Too much sleep." Life was passing him by. What was he accomplishing flat on his back, dead to the world? And why did he always feel wet ? He glanced at himself. He didn't look wet.
    With effort, he stood, glanced longingly at the pillow again, then crossed to his desk. He stood behind it, leaned forward, with his hands flat on the desk and his arms straight.
    He didn't recognize his hands. They were too ... large? Too wide? Too pale? He didn't know. He wasn't sure. He was sure that they weren't his hands.
    He shook his head quickly. What in hell was he thinking? Of course these were his hands. Whose hands were they if they weren't his?
    He thought that they penetrated the desk. A quarter of an inch. Less. They were a part of the blond wood, one with the blond wood.
    He straightened, suddenly frightened.
    He needed to sleep.
    He looked longingly again at the cot across the room.
    ~ * ~
    At times, Rebecca Meechum thought she almost regretted what she had done to Sam Goodlow . If it hadn't been so easy to do it to him, if he hadn't invited it, if he hadn't let his guard down and become so vulnerable, then perhaps she would have regretted what she'd done. But people, like him, who were foolish enough to let