themselves be used by people like her, deserved whatever they got. What was the phrase?— There 's a sucker born every minute . Sam was a sucker, and she was going to be ten thousand dollars richer because of it.
She didn't spend long thinking about what might have become of him. If he was dead, then it was too bad. But, hell, everyone died. Did it really matter when, or how?
She looked at the large manilla envelope on her kitchen table. It was sealed, and she had been warned not to open it. She wished the woman would come and pick it up. Having it around was too much temptation. Calling the woman was out, too, because she—Rebecca—had no idea what the woman's real name was, or where she lived. "The less you know, the better off we'll both be," the woman had said.
What a sticky situation this was turning into.
EIGHT
The man on the phone was clearly agitated. "Mr. Biergarten , I have a problem. We have a problem." The man spoke breathlessly, as if near panic. "I desperately need your help."
Ryerson asked the man's name.
"Jack Lutz," the man answered. "My wife's name is Stevie. We've read about you, we know about you—who in Boston doesn't? And I've talked to the police, of course. They're doing what they can, but it's not enough. They don't know where to begin, for God's sake—"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lutz," Ryerson cut in, "but you'll have to tell me what this is about."
Silence.
"Mr. Lutz?" Ryerson coaxed.
"I thought you'd simply . . . know ," Jack Lutz said, clearly astonished.
"It doesn't work that way," Ryerson said.
"But you're supposed to be psychic. Maybe I have the wrong person. Is there another Ryerson Biergarten in Boston?"
"No." Ryerson sighed. "I'm the only one."
Silence.
"If you could tell me why you're calling, Mr. Lutz, I can tell you if I can help."
A moment's silence. "It simply seems odd that I should have to tell you anything…" A pause. "Stevie's missing."
"Yes?" Ryerson coaxed.
"That's my wife. Stevie."
"And she's missing. Yes. Please go on."
"I wasn't going to call you, Mr. Biergarten . I really don't believe in any of this supernatural mumbo jumbo. But I'm desperate, and desperate people—"
"Where are you calling from?" Ryerson cut in; he wanted to get Lutz back to the point.
"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
She didn't spend long thinking about what might have become of him. If he was dead, then it was too bad. But, hell, everyone died. Did it really matter when, or how?
She looked at the large manilla envelope on her kitchen table. It was sealed, and she had been warned not to open it. She wished the woman would come and pick it up. Having it around was too much temptation. Calling the woman was out, too, because she—Rebecca—had no idea what the woman's real name was, or where she lived. "The less you know, the better off we'll both be," the woman had said.
What a sticky situation this was turning into.
EIGHT
The man on the phone was clearly agitated. "Mr. Biergarten , I have a problem. We have a problem." The man spoke breathlessly, as if near panic. "I desperately need your help."
Ryerson asked the man's name.
"Jack Lutz," the man answered. "My wife's name is Stevie. We've read about you, we know about you—who in Boston doesn't? And I've talked to the police, of course. They're doing what they can, but it's not enough. They don't know where to begin, for God's sake—"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lutz," Ryerson cut in, "but you'll have to tell me what this is about."
Silence.
"Mr. Lutz?" Ryerson coaxed.
"I thought you'd simply . . . know ," Jack Lutz said, clearly astonished.
"It doesn't work that way," Ryerson said.
"But you're supposed to be psychic. Maybe I have the wrong person. Is there another Ryerson Biergarten in Boston?"
"No." Ryerson sighed. "I'm the only one."
Silence.
"If you could tell me why you're calling, Mr. Lutz, I can tell you if I can help."
A moment's silence. "It simply seems odd that I should have to tell you anything…" A pause. "Stevie's missing."
"Yes?" Ryerson coaxed.
"That's my wife. Stevie."
"And she's missing. Yes. Please go on."
"I wasn't going to call you, Mr. Biergarten . I really don't believe in any of this supernatural mumbo jumbo. But I'm desperate, and desperate people—"
"Where are you calling from?" Ryerson cut in; he wanted to get Lutz back to the point.
"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
Similar Books
My Texas Sweetheart (book one)
Pauliena Acheson
Charmed by His Love
Janet Chapman
Cheri Red (sWet)
Charisma Knight
Through the Fire
Donna Hill
The Hen of the Baskervilles
Donna Andrews
Can't Shake You
Molly McLain
A Cast of Vultures
Judith Flanders
Wings of Lomay
Devri Walls
Five Parts Dead
Tim Pegler
Angel Stations
Gary Gibson