Epilogue

Week Later

What in life gets resolved? Ryerson wondered. Very little, really. The memories linger, although they're often incomplete, or they're a litany of mistakes, or they're memories of happiness brought to an abrupt and awful end.

Like his time with Joan.

He pulled the Volkswagen Beetle onto Bailey Avenue. It would lead him east, to Route 33, to Interstate 90, then to Rochester, where he planned to stop and see his friend, Chief of Detectives Tom McCabe. He was much in need of friendship just now.

He reached across the seat and stroked the sleeping Creosote. "We'll find out what's wrong with you, boy," he said, because Dr. Craig Gibson, D.V.M., had, after a lengthy series of tests, been able to proclaim only, “He's allergic to something. Don't ask me what." Then he'd smiled. "Maybe he's allergic to those demons you've been harping about all week, Mr. Biergarten."

Ryerson hoped the Volkswagen possessed the same kind of happy memories that the Woody had, before Doreen had corrupted it. When his mind cleared, and his psyche got back into focus, he'd find out.

He came to a stop at a red light, heard a motorcycle pull up next to him, and glanced over at it. He saw that a woman of sixty was astride it, her leathers polished, her mouth drawn into a huge smile. Ryerson thought, 'She's happy! She's herself."

The light changed. The woman goosed the accelerator of the big Harley and roared off. Ryerson touched the Beetle's accelerator so it tiptoed cautiously through the intersection.

Then, because of all that he had learned in the past two weeks about love, death, grief, and hope, he said, "Good-bye, Joan. I'll see you in a while," and steered the Beetle toward Route 33.