Walkers. Part 18

"Okay," the bald man said, "who you looking for?"

"It's an older woman," Joana said. "Her name is Villaneuva. Her granddaughter Ynez gave us this address."

"Villanueva? The old bruja?"

"I think that's the one we mean," Joana said. "Does she live here?"

"Not here," the proprietor said quickly. "Upstairs. "She's got a room in the back."

"How do we get up there?" Glen asked.

"You wasting your time. The old bruja don' talk to n.o.body."

"All the same, we'd like to try," Joana said. "Is there a stairway?"

"Okay, but I think you're crazy. Go out and around the side of the building. There's some stairs. Go up them, and she's in the room at the top. Don' say I told you how to find her."

Joana thanked the man, and she and Glen went back out on the street. They followed a weed-grown alley between the store and a shoe-repair shop and found the flight of wooden stairs leading up to a door on the second floor. Joana started up, with Glen right behind her.

The door was weathered to driftwood gray, and fitted crookedly in the frame. A cold wisp of wind curled around Joana's neck and she s.h.i.+vered. She and Glen looked at each other and exchanged uneasy smiles.

Glen knocked. The sound was curiously dead, as though there were nothing behind the door. They waited, hearing only the traffic noise from Brooklyn Avenue. Glen knocked again.

"Go away!" The voice from the other side of the door was thin and papery.

"We've come to see you," Glen said.

"I don' want to see anybody. Go away."

Joana leaned closer to the door. "Senora Villanueva, your granddaughter Ynez at the hospital sent us. She said she spoke to you."

There was a shuffling sound from inside the room. A bolt slid back and the door opened inward about six inches. A puff of stale air, sour with the smell of old age, escaped. The inside of the room was in shadows, and it took a moment for Joana's eyes to adjust so she could see the woman peering up at them from the doorway. She was not more than five feet tall, wearing a loose black sweater and a long skirt that hung limp on her thin body. Her face was as wrinkled as a walnut.

"Senora?"

The old woman said nothing.

"I'm Joana Raitt. This is my friend, Glen Early."

"I know who you are." The old woman's eyes were lively and bright in their deep sockets. "Come inside, if you must."

She backed away from the door. Joana and Glen entered, closing the door behind them. The room contained a sofa-bed covered with a gray military blanket, a wooden table with paint of several colors showing through the worn places, three mismatched chairs, and a cheap black-and-white television set on which a game-show host capered without sound. An old standing lamp with a forty-watt bulb gave the only illumination. The room's single window had a dark green shade tacked to the frame.

The old woman sat down at the table. Joana sat across from her. Glen started to take the third chair.

"No," the old woman snapped. "Not you. You have no business with me." She pointed a bony finger at the sofa-bed. "You sit over there."

Glen looked surprised for a moment, but did as he was told.

For a full minute Senora Villanueva and Joana sat facing each other, not speaking.

"What is it you want of me?" the Mexican woman said finally.

"I-I'm not sure," Joana said. "Let me tell you my story first."

"No. I know all I have to know of your story. You are surrounded by death. You live in the midst of death. That is your story. Just tell me what it is you want of me."

"I guess what I want is for you to explain it to me. I don't understand what is happening to me. Or why."

There was another silence. The old woman's wheezing breath was the loudest thing in the room. At last she said, "You have walked in the land of the dead."

"Yes." Joana s.h.i.+vered, although the room was hot and stuffy.

"You were called before your time. You did not belong there."

Joana leaned forward, intent on every word.

"You traveled too far. You saw too much. The dead want you back."

Like an echo in her mind, the words spoken by the terrible voice in the tunnel came back to Joana. You cannot go back now! You have come too far. You can never return!

"That's what I felt," she said softly, "that they did not want me to come back."

"But you did in spite of them. You were called back to life by someone who loved you."

Joana glanced over at Glen. He was sitting very straight on the edge of the sofa-bed, his head c.o.c.ked to hear what was being said.

"I did come back," Joana said. "But now-"

"Now they have come for you. The dead have come to claim you."

Joana's throat was dry. She could only nod her head in answer.

"You have shown courage, young woman. You have fought them, even though they are very powerful. The dead."

"I want to live," Joana said. "I'm young."

"Everyone wants to live, child. Even the very old."

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"Never mind *sorry.' The young always think they will live forever."

Joana saw compa.s.sion in the bright, deep-set eyes, and smiled.

"But you must watch, always watch. Cuidado. Take care. Your struggle is not finished."

"There will be more of them?" A sob caught in Joana's throat.

"Yes. You were warned. You were told how many will come for you."

"I was told? I don't understand."

The old woman looked at her. Joana could read nothing in the wrinkled face. Then, again, an echo from the tunnel of the dead: You may win once, not likely twice, most rarely thrice, and four times-never!

"Four? Does it mean there will be four?"

Senora Villaneuva lifted and lowered her head in a silent a.s.sent.

Joana's mind raced ahead. The woman in the car, the maniac, the girl on the cliff. Three of them. She had fought three of them and won.

Four times-never!

Could she stand another of the dreadful walkers without going insane?

"You can see these things, Senora," she said. "Do you see my fate? Will I survive the fourth walker?"

"That is not revealed to me," said the old woman.

Joana felt the cold clutch of despair. "Is there nothing I can do? Must I walk in fear the rest of my life, wondering when the next of these creatures will come after me?"

"It is true you must walk a dangerous road," the old woman said. "But there is hope. The dead have many powers, but there are things they cannot do. Only the fresh dead ones can walk. And even then their bodies will decay and finally crumble. When the four have come, there will be no more."

"The fourth walker, the last, when will he come? Can you tell me that?"

"I cannot."

Joana turned away. She wanted to cry.

"This much I can tell you," the old woman continued, "None will come after the Eve of St. John."

Instantly Joana was alert. You must return by the Eve of St. John.

"I have heard that name. What is it? What is the Eve of St. John?"

"It is the night of nights for all creatures not of this earth. It is the time when spirits fly and dead men walk. It is a night of sorcerers, a time of witchery. In my language it is la noche de medio-verano. Midsummer Night."

"Midsummer Night!" Joana repeated. "Of course." She looked at Glen. "When is that? I know it's soon."

Glen frowned in concentration. "June 23, I think. That would be Monday."

Joana turned back to Senora Villaneuva. The old woman nodded slowly. "Monday."

"Then, if they have not taken me by Monday, that will be the end of it?"

"The dead will have no power over you after the Eve of St. John."

Joana breathed a great deep sigh. She felt almost as though she were already free. Then she saw that the old woman was still looking at her. In the dark, shadowed eyes was a warning.

"Is there something more I should know?" Joana said.

"I have nothing more to tell you. It is time for you to go." The thin old voice had turned cold.

Joana rose uncertainly. Glen came over to stand beside her.

"Wait a minute," he said, "there is a lot more you can tell us. What will this last of the walkers look like? How will we know him? What can we do to stop him?"

Senora Villanueva rose from her chair and drew her shriveled body erect. She turned her gaze on Glen, and sparks glowed deep in her eyes.

"I said I have nothing more to tell you. Nothing that will help you now."

"But you do know more," Glen persisted.

"Yes."

"What, for G.o.d sake? What else do you see?"

"I see more death," the old woman said, her voice suddenly loud in the closed room. "I see a friend who is not a friend. I see fire and blood. No more than that."

"No more? What do you mean, no more?" Glen's voice rose dangerously. "Why do you give us riddles? We need facts, dates, times."

"Glen, please-" Joana began.

The old woman stepped closer to him. She stabbed a finger up at him. "Facts, is it? You want facts? Very well, young man, I can give you facts. I can tell you the day on which you die. I can tell you how you die. And there is nothing you can do to change it."

The silence in the room was sudden and stifling.

"Well? Do you want these facts now, my so-eager young man?"

Glen's face went pale. He was sweating. Finally, in a voice barely audible, he said, "No."

The old woman continued to stare at him. Slowly she lowered her finger from his face. "You choose wisely. There is no greater curse than to know when and how you will die."

Glen stood as though paralyzed. Joana nudged him and he came out of it and started for the door.

"Senora, how can I thank you?" Joana said.

"I want no thanks."

"Then at least let me pay you something." She started to open her bag.

"Money? Money has no meaning for me. Go now. I am tired."

Joana and Glen left the dim, musty room and walked down the flight of stairs to the alley. When they reached the street they stood for a moment breathing in the clean night air. The solid pavement, the palm trees, the boys around their flame painted car, all seemed part of a world apart from Senora Villanueva and her dark little room. It was a familiar world, a world of life.

They crossed the street and got into the car. Glen started the engine, then turned to Joana.

"What do you think?" he said.