T. Wright - The Changing

"No. He's just a pup. And he's sick. I'd better get him out of here." He pushed his chair back. The cafeteria had been at least half full during much of his discussion with McCabe. Now, it being close to 4:30, the mid-shift people were just about ready to go back to work after the afternoon break. News of the carnage in Building Nine's basement corridor had not yet broken out. A woman named Elvira Larson had found the body, and she was under sedation at The Park's hospital. The only other people who knew anything were the security people and the Rochester Police assigned to the case. There were rumors, of course, and they'd kept people talking. During his thirty minutes or so at the cafeteria, Ryerson had overheard bits and pieces of speculation as well as good advice: "Stay away from the lower levels," and "Carry a can of Mace," and "Stay in groups of twos and threes, that's what I say." And during his time there in the cafeteria, Ryerson had reminded himself that the chances were good that the murderer was there, too, at one of the tables, scarfing down a Twinkie, or playing cards, or reading the latest horror thriller.

The 4:30 chimes sounded, and the cafeteria began to empty. Creosote started feeling better, Ryerson noticed, because the dog's sniffling and wheezing and deep, benign growling renewed itself.

McCabe said, "Jesus, he sounds like he's going to die!"

Ryerson shook his head. "No. He always sounds like that. When he's feeling good, anyway." He paused to stroke Creosote and tell him he was glad he was feeling better, all of which made him realize that he was growing awfully fond of the beast. "I say ‘wolf,' " Ryerson continued, picking up on their topic of conversation from earlier, "not ‘werewolf,' because this man, or woman, doesn't seem to have his mythology quite right." McCabe looked confused. Ryerson explained, "He's done what-three killings in the last week or so? That's right, isn't it?"

McCabe nodded. "Yes. That's right."

"And when was the last full moon?" Ryerson asked, then answered himself, "It was two weeks ago, Tom. The moon's been in wane ever since. And today-even that's important, Tom; this was a day time killing; the moon's not really visible during the day, is it? I mean, you've got to look for it, you've got to look hard, and any… supernatural influence it might have would be nullified-" He paused a moment to get back on his original train of thought. "But there is no-" Creosote cut loose with a particularly loud series of groaning gurgles. "There is no full moon, now," Ryerson continued. "And that's the crux of werewolf mythology. A man, or woman, is made into a werewolf by the influence of the full moon."

McCabe sat back in his chair, shrugged. "Well, I know that, Rye. Every one knows that."

Ryerson nodded. "Yes. Everyone but our murderer."

A uniformed cop appeared at the table. "Pardon me, Chief McCabe?"

McCabe said, "Yes?"

The cop said, "They've identified the body, sir."

McCabe rolled his eyes. "Good Lord, boy, why don't you announce it over the P A system?! None of these people knows about this thing yet."

The cop looked embarrassed and confused. "I don't understand, sir; there's no one else here."

McCabe looked quickly about, saw that the cafeteria was empty, and apologized.

"His name was Walt Morgan," George Dixon, head of security at The Park, explained. Dixon was a middle-aged man who drank too much and relished being what even his closest friend called "an overweight, out-of-shape, cynical bastard." He'd been a cop once, in Buffalo, but his drinking and his sloppiness had put the promise of an interesting if not brilliant career far behind him. Dixon's office was small and cramped, but strangely neat. McCabe and Biergarten stood in front of Dixon's desk while Dixon sorted through Morgan's file. "He was a manager in Emulsion Technology, Building Nine. Married, four kids, a Methodist; and if you're wondering about suspects, you've got your choice of maybe fifty people who worked under him. He was an asshole from the word go."

Ryerson said, "Oh? How so?"

Dixon looked suspiciously at him. "How's anybody an asshole, Mr. Burngarden?"

"Biergarten," Ryerson corrected.

"Whatever," Dixon said. "Some people are just assholes, plain and simple. Some people are nerds, some people are assholes, some people are jerks, some people are good ole boys -it's self -explanatory, Mr. Biergarten."

Ryerson shifted the snorting Creosote from his right arm to his left and held his free hand out. "Could I see that file, please?"

Dixon looked at McCabe, who nodded, then gave Ryerson the file. McCabe and Dixon had worked together several years earlier, when a short-lived spate of vandalism had erupted at The Park; it was an encounter that Dixon felt had put them on a friendly, first-name basis, though McCabe did his best to discourage it. He said to McCabe now, as Ryerson leafed through the file, "Who'd you say this guy is, Tom?"

McCabe answered tersely. "He's a friend. He's a psychic investigator."

Dixon's quick, toothy smile was the soul of incredulity. "A psychic investigator?! Jesus, Tom, I'm fucking impressed-"

McCabe cut in, "Your reactions to Mr. Biergarten are none of my concern, Dixon-"

Dixon's smile vanished.

Ryerson said, "My dog has to relieve himself." He held up the employee file. "Can I borrow this overnight?"

Again Dixon looked at McCabe. McCabe said to Ryerson, "Rye, I'm not sure that would be… politic. We usually have to get a warrant, ourselves, to take these things out of The Park-"

Dixon interrupted, trying, Ryerson knew, to get a hand up on McCabe. "Can you get it back to me tomorrow, Mr. Biergarten?"

"Yes," Ryerson said.

Dixon shrugged. "Then knock yourself out."

"Thanks," Ryerson said. "Now if you could tell me where the nearest exit is, my dog has to…"

Dixon nodded toward the door. "Down the hallway, up the stairs, under the mural, out to Ridge Road."

"Thanks," Ryerson said again, and left the office quickly, followed the narrow corridor to the Ansel Adams mural-transparency, which was behind him as he left The Park, so he didn't see it, then out to Ridge Road, where he put Creosote down, and where Creosote did what Ryerson, being psychic, had known he had to do.

Greta Lynch was just getting off her shift, then. She usually used the Ridge Road exit, the one Ryerson had used, because she kept her four-year-old VW Rabbit in the south parking lot. But the Rabbit was in the shop today, so she was walking home and used the Lake Avenue exit instead. Mostly to get Douglas Miller off her back. "No, Doug, really, I'm just going over to Films Technology for a moment.”

“Okay," he'd said, clearly unconvinced. "But why do I get the idea that you're trying to dodge me, Greta?" There had been a playful tone in his voice, but Greta knew that his feeling for her went beyond flirtation. Ever since the beginning of the month, when he'd been transferred to Emulsion Technology5-A from Emulsion Technology 5-C-where she'd had to deal with him only occasionally-he'd been walking her to her car in the south parking lot, even though it meant that he had to go back across Ridge Road, back past the personnel offices, and then through what seemed like miles of corridors to get to his own car in the north parking lot. Why he didn't merely park in the same lot as she, Greta wasn't sure; she supposed that his nightly "errand of mercy," as he'd once called it, "to protect you, Greta, from the muggers and thieves and rapists that prowl these streets after 4:30," was designed to illustrate the real depth of his affection for her.

But tonight, even though she didn't have Doug Miller tagging along after her, she found that she did have the annoyance of having to walk past a number of police cars lined up on the Lake Avenue side of The Park, past what she knew were a dozen leering cops, and that made her feel very ill at ease. Deep inside, something else made her feel ill at ease, too. Something she couldn't define. Something that slipped away when she tried to get hold of it.