T. Wright - The Devouring

To which Ryerson replied, "I'm sorry. I had to ask. I won't mention it again."

Joan hurried on. "When she died, I didn't know what to do. She wasn't my only friend, of course. I have friends; both men and women. People I go out with. But none of those friendships are like what I had with Lila. What I had with Lila was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing." Her voice was trembling now. "The sort of thing that friendships are supposed to be, I guess. Like the friendships a lot of people have only with their pets."

She stopped, looked at Creosote, then at Ryerson, went on. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

Ryerson said, "Pardon me, Joan, but you seem to apologize a lot more than you need to."

She grinned wryly. "You're right. It's just that I run off at the mouth from time to time." She realized that anxiety was creeping up on her again because she was on the brink of saying more, much more, than she wanted to. And on top of it all, she had little idea how much Ryerson knew. She went on. "Just how psychic are you, Rye?"

"Very," he answered simply. It was the first bit of cat and mouse he'd played with her, she thought. He added, "And you?"

"And me what?" She sounded surprised.

He said, settling back and crossing his legs again, "I'd say you have the gift, Joan."

She opened her mouth, closed it. Then, just as he was about to speak, she blurted out, "It's not a gift, dammit! How can you call it a gift ? It's a disease, it's a damned disease-" She stopped, shook her head, sighed heavily, and reiterated, forcing steadiness into her voice, "It's not a gift, Rye. It's not a gift!"

He stared silently at her for several seconds. Then he said, "Why did Lila kill herself?"

She said nothing.

"Were you there with her," Ryerson said, "when she-"

Joan cut in, "I was wrong about you."

Ryerson said nothing.

Joan added, "I thought you were going to play fair. But you're not playing fair. You're setting me up, dammit, and I don't like it." She paused to give him a chance to respond. Still he said nothing. She went on tightly. "I told myself, 'Now, here's a man who's easy to be with. Here's a man who's not going to try to dominate me, who's not going to try to trick me.' But it was all an act, wasn't it?" Still he said nothing. " Wasn't it?!" she demanded.

"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry."

She pushed herself quickly to her feet. "Where'd you put my jacket, dammit!"

He stood. Creosote reappeared from the bedroom with a well-chewed argyle sock hanging from his mouth. Ryerson glanced at the dog, then looked apologetically at Joan. "Please, don't leave. No more tricks, I promise. But please, don't leave. We've got to talk."

She looked fixedly at him. "It's too late, Mr . Biergarten. Much too late!"

"It's never too late to talk, Joan."

"And what's that? Profound utterance of the hour?" She glanced quickly about. " Where is my damned jacket?!"

Ryerson sighed. "I'll get it," he said, and went into the bedroom; he'd put her jacket on the bed. But when he went into the bedroom, he stopped and whispered, "Creosote, you little-"

The jacket was in shreds.

He sensed Joan behind him, turned his head, and again looked apologetically at her. He said lamely, "He likes people's clothes, I'm afraid."

Joan said nothing. She moved stiffly past him to the bed, picked up what was left of her jacket, and stalked from the room. Ryerson followed her downstairs to the front door. When she was about to open it, he said, "Where are you staying in Boston?"

She pursed her lips. "Do I have to tell you?"

He shook his head quickly. "No," he said, "you don't."

~ * ~

In Buffalo

Laurie Drake was in a very foul mood. She wasn't sure why; if she stopped to think about it, she'd probably have to admit that her bad stomach had something to do with it, and her lingering headache, and her two weeks now without much sleep. And the dreams. The lousy, crazy, stupid dreams. The dreams that-as lousy and crazy and stupid as they were-made her feel so very good. (And if only that good feeling could last!)

Her mother, Margaret Drake-a thin, fussy, nervous woman in her early thirties whose days were composed of cleaning, cooking, eating, watching "her stories," cooking, more cleaning, complaining, and still more cleaning, wagged a finger at Laurie. "And I don't ever want to hear you use that word again, young lady! Is that very clear?"

Sighing, Laurie said, "Yes, Mother."

"And don't you sigh at me, either. You're not old enough to sigh-is that understood?"

Laurie, after a heroic and successful effort to keep herself from sighing again, said, "Yes, I understand, Mother."

"Good." Margaret Drake put her wagging finger away. "Now you have to tell me where it was that you heard that awful word."

Laurie looked at her mother in amazement. She wanted to say, How would that make any difference? Are you going to go and give the word back so I won't have it anymore and I won't be able to say it again? But she knew her mother wouldn't understand that, so she said, "My stomach hurts."

Margaret Drake looked disconcerted. Then, apparently deciding that her daughter was simply evading the issue-as she often did-said, "That is not what we're talking about, Laurie. We are talking about the fact that you have heard the 'F' word somewhere, and that you have used it in this house. If your father were alive, he'd thrash the living daylights out of you."

Laurie sighed again, caught herself in the middle of it, put her hand to her mouth, burped.

Margaret Drake was mortified.

Laurie burped again, louder.

Margaret Drake grew red with anger and embarrassment.

Laurie burped again, even louder, and longer, as if she'd had a half-dozen bottles of beer.

Margaret Drake slapped her. "That is not," she screeched, "a proper thing"-another slap-"for a young lady"-another slap-"to do!"

Laurie opened her mouth to burp again. But a belch-long and rolling and resonant-came out instead. And it stank, too, which astonished Margaret. It smelled like the little tins of potted meat she used to buy, until she learned what went into them. And simply as a reflex, because she had never known of any other way to control her precocious daughter, she slapped her again, then again, and again. Until, at last, Laurie reached up and caught her wrist. For the second time that morning, Margaret Drake was astonished, so astonished, in fact, that for several seconds she let Laurie hold her there, with her open hand quivering an inch or so from Laurie's face. At least she told herself that that was what she was doing-letting her daughter hold her wrist. It wasn't because Laurie had an incredibly strong grip on it. Not at all.

Margaret Drake whispered tremblingly, "You let go of me now!"

And Laurie Drake hissed back, "If you lay a hand on me again, bitch, I'll tear your eyes out!" Then she let go of her.

Margaret stared wide-eyed at her daughter for a few seconds, then quickly left the room.

~ * ~

Stephen Brownleigh looked away from the viewing window in the basement of the Buffalo County Medical Examiner's Office and nodded grimly. "Yes," he said to the detective standing with him, "that's my mother. That's Vera Brownleigh."

Sergeant Guy Mallory, recently promoted, neat, pleasant-looking, put his hand comfortingly on Stephen Brownleigh's arm. "I'm very sorry," he said.

"Yes," Stephen sighed, "thank you-"

"But I must ask you to identify the other body," Sergeant Mallory interrupted.

Stephen sighed yet again, nodded, and turned back to the viewing window. On the other side of the window, a grim-faced, white-coated female lab technician lifted the sheet from the face of the second corpse. Stephen gasped and turned quickly away. There was a row of black plastic chairs nearby; he sat in one, put his face in his hands. Sergeant Mallory again laid his hand comfortingly on Stephen's arm. "Mr. Brownleigh, are you all right?"