Goodlow's Ghosts by Wright T.M

Author:Wright, T.M. [W., Wright, T. M.;Armstrong, F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2011-03-08T05:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

Matthew Peters, who had been vacuuming on the first floor of the town house, stuck his head into Ryerson's office and said, "Mr. Biergarten, someone to see you."

"Who is it?" Ryerson asked.

"He wouldn't give me his name. I'll ask again, if you'd like. He says you know him."

Ryerson sighed. "Where is he? Downstairs?"

Matthew nodded. "He's waiting at the front door, actually."

Ryerson considered a moment, then said, "Go ahead and let him in, Matthew. I'll be right down."

"Sure," Matthew said.

Ryerson went to a window that overlooked the front porch. He peered out, saw, beneath the small porch roof, a gray suit sleeve, a hand, a black oxford wing tip. He went downstairs.

Matthew, waiting in the hallway, gestured toward the Living room.

Ryerson went in.

The man in the gray suit was standing near the fireplace. He smiled cordially as Ryerson entered the room. He was tall, athletically built, and he sported a nicely trimmed blond beard and mustache. His vaguely thinning hair was blond and his eyes were a striking pale blue. He was a very good-looking man and seemed, even standing quietly, to be the kind of man who could command much respect.

Ryerson strode forward and offered his hand: "I'm Ryerson Biergarten. Mr. Peters said you wanted to see me?"

The man shook Ryerson's hand firmly. "Yes, Mr. Biergarten. I have a problem, and I believe you can help me solve it. My name's Sam Goodlow."

~ * ~

Ryerson let go of the man's hand. "No you aren't," he said.

The man's cordial smile faded. He looked confused, disappointed. "But I know who I am, Mr. Biergarten," he protested.

Ryerson shook his head. "I've met Sam Goodlow. I know him."

"But you and I have never met before." The man's smile returned; now, however, he looked bemused, as if Ryerson were playing a game with him. "Look here," the man said, "I can prove who I am." He reached into his suitjacket pocket, produced a wallet, opened it, looked inside. Again he appeared confused. "Good Lord, someone's stolen everything from my wallet. It's empty. There's absolutely nothing in it." He held the wallet open for Ryerson to look. "See. Nothing." He peered into the wallet's several compartments; he was clearly upset. "I don't know how this could have happened. I didn't leave it anywhere. I came right here from my office and I know that I had money then because I stopped to make a telephone call at a public phone, and I needed change ..." He rifled through the wallet. "Dammit to hell, this is incredible, a man's personal belongings aren't safe even on his own body—"

Ryerson, seeing the man's obvious and sincere distress, stepped forward and put his hand on the man's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.

The man lurched away from Ryerson's hand. "Who are you touching? Why do you want to put your hand on me?" He was very angry.

And, all at once, Ryerson realized what was happening. "I'm sorry," he said. He stared at the man for a couple of seconds, then added, "I believe we have much to discuss.

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