Walkers. Part 11

Joana's entire body tingled electrically. She felt herself getting aroused all over again.

"You have such a romantic way with words," she said with her mouth on his.

"If you want, I'll do it later in rhyme, on bended knee."

"That would be nice."

"Seriously, Joana, I really want to be married to you. Spending these weekends together is great, and I'm always glad when we can get together during the week, but the days in between seem wasted. I don't want to take a chance on losing you."

"You mean it, don't you."

"h.e.l.l yes, I mean it."

"What about just moving in together. Dispense with all the paperwork and stuff."

"I thought about that, but to tell you the truth, I don't think it would work for me. There's just enough middle-cla.s.s morality in my upbringing to make me uncomfortable with the idea. So I guess if we do it, it's going to have to be legal."

"Ah, my Glen, I do love you."

"Then how about it?"

"All right."

The new commitment acted on both of them as a powerful aphrodisiac, and it was another hour before they rolled out of bed and showered together to get ready for the trip home.

They talked quietly together about getting married as Glen steered the Camaro down the darkening road out of the mountains. They agreed they would not make any big deal out of the wedding, just tell a few close friends, then do it. They decided October would be a good time, right after the World Series.

As they came out of the mountains the road straightened, heading for the San Bernardino Freeway. The conversation lapsed. Joana's buoyant mood and her happy thoughts of the future dimmed, and the lurking fear crept back into the car with her.

During most of the weekend she had been able to pretend that the terrible thing in the swimming pool had never happened, and to keep out of her mind the events that had followed. But now they were returning from their cabin in the sky to the real world, and somewhere in this world lurked an unnamed menace. Joana laid a hand on Glen's thigh. He put his hand over hers for a moment and smiled at her. The bucket seats in the Camaro prevented her from moving as close to him as she would have liked.

They were both silent as they joined the freeway parade of people returning home to Los Angeles from the weekend. Glen had to give his full attention to his driving, and Joana did not feel like talking anyway. She snapped on the car radio and found an FM station that was playing easy-listening rock. For the remainder of the trip she closed her eyes and let Kris Kristofferson and Linda Ronstadt take over.

It was ten o'clock when Glen pulled up at the house on Beachwood Drive. He parked behind Joana's Datsun, and they walked together up the path through the shrubbery that led to her house.

At the front door Glen set down her bag and kissed her. Joana clung to him. For a reason she could not explain, she felt like crying.

"Glen?"

"Hmm?"

"We don't have to, you know."

"Have to what?"

"Get married."

He looked at her, his eyes deep and serious. "I know we don't. Are you having second thoughts?"

"No, not me. I just thought that you, up there with the trees and the moon and the cabin and all that romantic stuff, might have, well, got carried away."

Glen took both her hands in his. "Joana, hear me. I love you. I mean I really, flat-out love you. And I want to marry you. You are the most important thing in my life."

She squeezed his hands. "But aren't you scared? About getting married, I mean?"

"Sure I am. A man would be a fool not to be a little scared. What about you?"

"I am too, a little. But I'll tell you one thing, I'm sure not scared enough to say no. Mister, you got yourself engaged."

Glen tilted her chin up, but before he could kiss her, the telephone bell shrilled inside the house.

Joana frowned. "Who would be calling me at this hour?" She unlocked the door. "Come in for a minute, Glen. I'll take care of whoever's on the phone, then we can say good night properly."

He followed her inside and closed the door.

Joana hurried to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing. The voice that spoke to her over the wire was high-pitched and agitated.

"Joana, thank G.o.d I finally got you. Where have you been all day?"

"I've been out. Who is this?"

"Peter. Peter Landau. Listen, I've got to talk to you. I think I've figured it out."

"Figured what out? What are you talking about?" She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Glen. "It's Peter Landau."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know. He's not making sense."

"Joana, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here, Peter. What's this all about?"

"I don't want to talk about it over the telephone," he said.

"Why not, for heaven's sake?"

"I just don't. Can you come up here?"

"No way," Joana said firmly. "I just got home, I'm tired, and I'm certainly not going anywhere without knowing what this is all about."

"I'll come to your place then."

"Peter, I'm not in the mood for visitors."

"I'm not a visitor. I have to talk to you."

"Besides, Glen is here."

"I don't care who's there. d.a.m.n it, Joana, I'm not putting a move on you. I've found out something. Something important as h.e.l.l. It's vital that you know about it right away."

There was a jagged edge of hysteria to Peter's voice. Joana had no doubt he was deadly serious.

"All right," she said, "come on over, but don't make it late. I'm really tired."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The phone went dead in Joana's hand. She stared at it a moment before hanging up.

"He insists on coming over here," she said to Glen. "Says he's found out something important that I should know. He sounded a little bit crazy. Can you stay until he gets here?"

"You couldn't drive me away," Glen said.

Joana put on a pot of coffee, and she and Glen sat uneasily together in the living room waiting for Peter Landau.

Several blocks away, down the hill toward Hollywood, a big man with powerful shoulders walked silently toward Joana's house. The flesh of his face was unnaturally dark and bloated. His arms hung straight at his sides. The man's eyes were dull and dead.

Chapter 13.

After he finally reached Joana by phone and made arrangements to go to her house, all the starch went out of Peter Landau. He sagged limply in his Stratolounger, braced now in the full upright position. His hand lay on the dead telephone for a full minute.

"Whata thea f.u.c.ka have I got myself mixed up in?" he asked the empty room.

There was no answer.

Throughout his life Peter had danced nimbly away from all kinds of sticky situations. Taking Care of Number One was his way of life, and it was a full-time job. There was no allowance in his personal budget for getting involved with other people's problems. Especially not a problem as grotesque as the one bearing down on Joana Raitt.

So with fast footwork and a keen nose for trouble, he had managed for years to be Mister Uninvolved. And now look where he was-all the way in with both feet, and no way out.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t, f.u.c.k, G.o.dd.a.m.n!" he said aloud, and slammed his fist down on the broad furry arm of the chair. Then, with a heavy sigh, he hoisted himself to his feet and headed out the door.

It had been a full ten hours earlier, just before noon, that Peter had first called Joana's number. He had spent a sleepless Sat.u.r.day night trying vainly to decipher the message of the Tarot cards and failing to get any further response from the Ouija board. Finally he had gone to his collection of books on the occult.

Over the years Peter had purchased the books largely for window dressing. They had worn leather bindings with a sensual feel, and t.i.tles that hinted at mystical worlds beyond the five senses. The books, he thought, added a nice touch of scholarly research to the place. His clients had been suitably impressed.

Never before, however, had Peter sat down to read any of the books seriously. He had only skimmed through a couple of them to pick up some occult-sounding jargon, or to find some theatrical touch he could add to his consultations.

But never before had there been a real reason to search through the books. Beginning early Sunday morning Peter went through them systematically, looking for answers he was afraid to find.

He had written down, as accurately as he could remember it, his exchange with the Ouija board. On a sheet of paper he had the key words heavily underlined: WALKERS 4aSAINT JOHN. He scanned the dusty pages for any references that might fit. The meaning of the message could be found somewhere in the old books, of that he was certain.

In the back of his mind there was an echo of the words from the story Joana had told him of her experience in the tunnel of death. Peter sorely regretted now that he had not taken notes, or at least listened more carefully to what she was saying. At the time, however, he was concerned only with getting Joana into bed. How unimportant that seemed now.

It had something to do with the voice that had so frightened Joana. There was a mention of St. John, and the number four. Beyond those hazy details, Peter could not remember.

Undeniably there was a connection between Joana's experience and the Ouija-board message for Peter. He felt driven now to find it. The Tarot had shown him that his own fate was bound to Joana's.

It was shortly before noon when he finally tracked down the answers. He came upon the key in two books: The Symbolism of Paranormal Experience and Significant Dates in Witchcraft and Demonology.

Peter checked and rechecked the books, hoping in vain to find he was mistaken. Finally he could not deny the horrifying answer. It was time to act. The first thing he had to do was tell Joana what he had learned. Then they could make plans on how best to fight the terror that stalked them both.

When he dialed Joana's number and got no answer on the other end, Peter could have cried in frustration. After the night-long session with the Tarot and the board, and the morning spent over the curious volumes of occult lore, he was consumed with a terrible sense of urgency in getting to Joana.

When he could not raise her, he tried Glen Early at the Marina. No answer there either. It was a simple deduction that Joana and Glen were out somewhere together. Peter prayed that they would return in time for him to share his knowledge before it was too late.

Throughout the afternoon he dialed both numbers repeatedly. Finally he forced himself to wait fifteen minutes between calls. He drank quarts of black coffee, but ate nothing. He had no appet.i.te for food.

By nightfall Peter's head ached fiercely and his eyes burned. The muscles of his neck and upper back were tight as steel cables. Half a dozen times, to force himself away from the telephone, Peter returned to the books. Part of his mind still searched for a flaw in his findings, but in his heart he knew better. Each rereading of the pa.s.sages, he had marked only convinced him anew of the imminent danger to Joana.

As the evening wore on, Peter's mind began to grow mushy. He found himself unable to concentrate on anything for more than a couple of minutes. This was no good. He knew he had to stay alert for when Joana returned from wherever she was.

He went into the bathroom and dug back into the cupboard under the sink. Pushed into a deep corner was the bottle he was after. It was still three-quarters full of bennies, the original hot-cross aspirin. Peter had not used uppers since the days when he was scrambling around for acting jobs, but he had kept this bottle, thinking vaguely that there might be an emergency someday when he would need them. The emergency was here.

Peter shook two pills out of the bottle and swallowed them with water from the tap. They left a faint bitter aftertaste on the back of his tongue. He checked his watch. Eight-fifteen. He should feel the effects in an hour. The cobwebs would clear from his mind and he would be wide awake. Tomorrow he would cancel his appointments and sleep off the after effects, but for tonight he had to stay sharp.

At ten o'clock there was an answer at last at Joana's number. By then the benzedrine had taken hold, and Peter's words came out in an agitated rush. He knew it was futile to try to explain what he had learned over the telephone, especially since he could not fully control his voice. He had to see Joana, tell her of the danger face to face, so he could convince her of the urgency.

When Joana refused to come to his place, he quickly agreed to go to her. It made no difference to him whether Glen Early or a dozen Glen Earlys were there. As a matter of fact, it might be well for Glen to know about this too. If he could convince the practical-minded engineer that the danger was real and imminent, Glen would make one more player on their team.

Without bothering even to turn out the lights, Peter ran out of the house and down the stairway out in front. Once he tripped on the rickety wooden steps and caught the railing barely in time to keep from pitching forward head first. He continued to the street at a more cautious pace. It would be unforgivable now to get himself incapacitated when he was probably the only person in the world who could help Joana Raitt.

He swung open the door to the garage set into the hillside below the house. Inside, the Corvette gleamed sleek and powerful. Peter jumped in, keyed the engine to life, and roared out into the night.

It took an effort of will to keep his foot light on the accelerator as he careened down Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Even so, the tires screeched in protest every time he took a curve.

After a journey that seemed endless, he reached Hollywood Boulevard at the foot of the canyon. He cranked the steering wheel to the left and floored the gas pedal. Just a mile and a half to go.

He tooled up Beachwood, squinting at the dim house numbers to check his progress. He let out a breath he had been holding unconsciously when he recognized Joana's Datsun parked at the curb. Behind it was a Camaro that probably belonged to Glen Early.

Peter jammed to a stop and sprang out of the car. The path across the yard to Joana's front door wound through heavy cl.u.s.ters of ferns and oleander bushes. Peter started toward the house at a trot.

A sound from close behind made him pull up suddenly. Cras.h.i.+ng toward him through the heaviest growth of shrubbery came a man. He was over six feet tall and broad through the shoulders and chest. The man carried his hands awkwardly out in front of him, not even trying to push aside the brush. From one clenched fist dangled something that looked like a rope.

The man gave no sign that he even saw Peter. Without slowing, he continued in a long loping stride toward the house. Peter, his nerves jangling with the effects of the amphetamine, stared at him.

"Hey-" he began, but at that moment the man approached close enough for Peter to see his face. The skin was dark and congested-looking. Crooked teeth showed behind the man's drawn-back lips. And the eyes, oh Jesus, the eyes. There was no spark in them. They were flat. And they were dead.

G.o.d in Heaven, Peter thought, he's one of them.

Before he could react, the man was almost upon him. The expression on the dark, heavy face was one of ferocious dedication. The gaze of his lifeless eyes fastened on Joana's house.

Without thinking what he was doing, Peter reached out for the man to stop him. A short, backhanded blow from the big man swatted Peter's hands away like a baby's. Peter lunged at him again, and opened his mouth to shout a warning to the house.