T. Wright - The Devouring

Sensing trouble, Ryerson answered, "I don't know her, Captain Lucas. That's the first time I've heard her name, in fact."

Lucas leaned back in his oak desk chair and nodded slowly. "Uh-huh," he sneered, and my granny eats horseshit for breakfast."

Ryerson found himself getting angry. He didn't want to get angry, because when he got angry his psychic ability either shut down altogether or it went haywire. Here, he guessed-in the Homicide Division of the Buffalo Police Department-it would go haywire. The potential flood of input was simply too great, the psychic atmosphere too much in turmoil; he could see himself fighting very hard to, look like something more than a madman. It had happened before, at theaters and shopping malls, and, for some strange and obscure reason, at post offices. He usually won the fight to present an appearance of normalcy, though it left him exhausted for hours. He said tightly, "If there's some charge you want to place against me-"

Again, Captain Lucas interrupted him. "What are we going to charge you with, Mr. Biergarten? Do you have anything in mind? You've been very helpful to us. She was a fugitive, you know. This"-again he checked the police report-"this Laurie Drake. She was a fugitive and you helped us catch her. My God, we should be giving you a commendation, shouldn't we? We should be giving you the key to the fucking city, shouldn't we? So tell me, why do you want us to charge you with something? And why in God's name am I so damned inclined to do it?" He stopped, clearly for effect.

But Ryerson jumped into the gap. "You damned cretin!" he snarled. "I have no more to do with that poor girl than your dung-eating granny does. Now I will repeat, unless you have a specific charge to place against me, I'll accept your thanks and go back to my motel room."

A long, slow, angry grin spread over Lucas's mouth. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his cluttered desk, and, still grinning, popped his cigar into his mouth and rolled it from one side to the other. "Why did you come to Buffalo, Mr. Biergarten?"

Ryerson answered, "That's none of your business."

"I can make it my business."

Ryerson pushed himself abruptly to his feet. "Then do it!" he hissed, and turned to go. A detective appeared at the open door. "Captain Lucas?" he said.

"Yeah," Lucas growled, "what is it, Spurling?"

Spurling said, "They dug the bullet out of that girl's stomach. It's from someone's service revolver, sir."

A name came to Ryerson. It came to him quickly, and there was pain attached to it. And, had he been thinking-had he been able to think beneath the psychic storm that was raging inside his head-he'd have stayed quiet. But, like a burp, the name "Newman" escaped him, and, sighing, he wished to heaven that he could snatch it back; he even thought for one glorious moment that neither Spurling nor Lucas had heard him.

But Spurling was looking wide-eyed at him in astonishment.

And behind him Lucas jumped to his feet and barked, "Get me Gail Newman's address and phone number. Then book this asshole!"

~ * ~

Leonard McGuire, Uniformed Officer, Buffalo Police Department

All his life, Leonard McGuire wanted only to be of service, wanted only to do what he was told to do because that made life easier for him. At home, his father-who had assured him time and again that he, Leonard, "didn't have the brains that God gave geese"-made all of Leonard's decisions for him, because, he assured Leonard, "You certainly can't make them yourself." In school, Leonard, who was not at all stupid, did precisely what he was told by his teachers and made it through twelve grades with hassles to no one. When he joined' the Marines, he was sure that most decisions would be made for him, decisions like when to get up, when and how to eat, when and how to take showers, when, even, to go and find a woman to spend time with. And for a while in boot camp it was true; all his decisions were made for him and he was as contented as a sleeping cat in a pocket of sunlight. But then boot camp ended, he was shipped off to be an electrician's mate aboard an aircraft carrier, and for the first time in his life he was required to make his own decisions. And because he never had, he couldn't. He buckled, snapped, and was discharged. Several years later he was hired by the Buffalo Police Department (thanks to the fact that his father was then a city councilman). His solemn and secret vow was this; never make waves, never seek promotion, do what you are told, do it immediately, enforce the law, be invisible. He thought he had the tools to do this. He thought his career with the Buffalo Police Department was going to be long and peaceful. But soon he found that decisions were required of him every day-Do I let this speeder go with only a warning? Do I draw my gun on this guy whose hand is so close to a knife? Do I pick up that streetwalker or wait for someone from Vice to do it? Do I look the other way when I see someone take two or three newspapers from the automatic vendor on the corner? These questions were tough questions at first. After all, hadn't he been assured over and over again that he didn't have the ability to make his own decisions? Hadn't someone always made decisions for him?

But much to his surprise, he found that he could make decisions, that his mental apparatus was in pretty good working order, in fact. When, for instance, the streetwalker sauntered up to someone's car and leaned over, he knew that all he had to do was cruise by, maybe say, "Take it somewhere else, honey," because it was a victimless crime, after all, and it was Vice's job to regulate it. And so he began to make decisions. Most of them were right; some of them weren't. And after a while the ones that weren't began to turn the tide, began to convince him yet again that, as his father had said, he didn't have the brains that God gave geese. Then each of his decisions became momentous and nerve-jarring. And he longed to have all those decisions made for him, so when he was wrong, someone else would get the blame.

~ * ~

In "The District"

He couldn't believe it, but it was true. At last he had forgotten his name. He smiled at that. It was funny forgetting his name. It was something to laugh about. But he didn't laugh; he hadn't laughed, he guessed, in ten years. He only smiled, took another slug of MD 20/20, and put the bottle on the pavement between his legs. He sensed that one of the thousands of rats that roamed this area was nosing about nearby, so he waved weakly at it, mumbled, "Go way, get outta here!" then picked up the bottle again. He turned his head in the direction of the rat, which was scurrying off into the darkness. "You'll have your chance quick enough!"

John , he thought. Sure, that was his name. Or George . Or Bill . It was something common, anyway.

To his right, he saw the headlights of a car approaching. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the glare, muttered a curse. Moments later the car pulled up on the wrong side of the road, so the driver's side was directly in front of him. The window went down. He heard: "Whatcha doin' there, buddy?"

He answered, "I'm dyin' here. What's it to ya?"

The driver chuckled. "That sounds like a hell of a way to spend an evening. Why don't you hop in, and I'll drive you down to the Salvation Army for the night."

"No thanks. I don't like it there. They make you pray."

"Nothing wrong with prayer, my friend."

"Didn't say there was."

Another chuckle, then the driver's voice grew tighter, more demanding. "Why don't you get in the car anyway?"

"An' why don'tchoo get fucked!"

The driver's door flew open. Moments later, John, or George, or Bill, found himself being thrown into the car's backseat and heading south down Peacock Street. He mumbled a few incoherent curses, vomited, then passed out.