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
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
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