The Walking Page 2

  He'd been feeling kind of Scroogy about Christmas this year, though he wasn't sure why. Usually Christmas was his favorite season. He loved everything about it: loved heating the same damn Christmas carols played in each store he went inside, loved the repeats of the old television specials, loved buying presents, loved receiving presents.

  Most of all, he loved the decorations. Though he did not contradict his friends when they complained that stores put out their decorations too early, that the whole season was far too commercialized, he secretly would have been happy had decorations gone up before Halloween. He saw nothing wrong with making the Christmas season last even longer.

  But this year, for some reason, he'd felt a little out of it. Though he'd seen the decorations, heard the music, even started buying some of his presents, it hadn't seemed like Christmas to him. He'd kept waiting for the feeling to kick

  Now it had.

  He walked between a Mercedes and a BMW to his old Buick, humming

  "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" under his breath. : :

  His father was sleeping on the couch when he arrived home, lying on his side in a modified fetal position, one arm curled under his head like a pillow, the other hanging loosely

  over the edge of the sofa. He was snoring softly, a sound barely audible over the voices of the newscasters on the television. Miles stood there for a moment, looking down at his dad. People were supposed to look younger when they slept. They were supposed to look peaceful, innocent, childlike. But his father looked older. Awake, his features reflected his relatively youthful mental state. But asleep, Bob Huerdeen looked every bit of his seventy-one years. His skin, a leathery cross-hatching of lines and wrinkles, sagged shapelessly over his thin cheeks; his discolored scalp could be seen through the thin back-comb of sparse gray hair. The expression on his face was one of resignation and tired defeat.

  This was what his dad would look like when he was dead, Miles thought.

  In his mind, he saw his father lying in a casket, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest, the expression on his lifeless face the same unhappy one he wore now.

  The image disturbed him, and though he had not intended to wake his father up, he walked across the room and turned on the light, noisily announcing his presence with a series of false coughs.

  Rubbing his eyes, coughing himself, Bob sat up. He blinked back the light, then glanced over at his son. "Home already?"

  "It's after six."

  Bob rubbed his yes. "I had that nightmare again."

  "What nightmare?"

  'The one I told you about."

  "You didn't tell me anything."

  "I told you last week. The one about the tidal wave." Miles frowned.

  "A recurring dream?" "It is now." "Tell me again." shook his head. "I knew you never listened to me." "B'I lbisten. I just forgot."

  "I'm in the kitchen, cooking myself breakfast. Pancakes.

  I look out the window and I see a tidal wave coming toward me. It's already crashed, and now it's a wall of white water and it's knocking over buildings and houses and everything in its way. I try to run, but it's like my feet are stuck to the floor. I can't move. Then the wave hits, and I'm thrown against the wall, only the wall's no longer there.

  Nothing's there, and I'm struggling underwater, trying to hold my breath until I reach the surface, but there is no surface. The wave keeps moving, and I'm trapped inside it, being carried along, tumbling over and over, and I can feel my lungs and stomach start to hurt, and I open my mouth because I can't keep it shut anymore and I have to breathe, and water floods down my throat, and I can feel myself dying.

  And then I wake up."

  "Wow."

  "It seemed damn real, let me tell you. Both times." "Jesus. You ever have a recurring dream before? ""Not that I remember."

  Miles smiled. "Maybe we really are going to have a tidal wave or an earthquake or something."

  His father chuckled. "Knock that crap off."

  But the old man didn't sound as derisive as Miles would have expected, and for some reason he found that unsettling.

  After dinner, Miles did the dishes, then told his dad that he had to go to the library and do some research. "You're not doing it online?"

  "Sometimes you need an actual book." His father nodded. "Mind if I tag along? .... "No problem," Miles said, but he was surprised. He couldn't remember the last time his dad had been to the library. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time the old man had read a book all the way through. Ever since they'd gotten cable, his father had given up the paperback westerns that had previously occupied his spare time and had not even

  bothered to finish the business magnate biography through which he'd been slogging. Now, when he wasn't out playing poker with his buddies or going to senior citizen meetings, his dad lay on the couch watching old B-movies and reruns of forty-year-old TV shows.

  Miles picked up his wallet and keys from the breakfront. 'l'here something you need to get?"

  "Just thought I'd look around. Can't tell what I might find." .....

  "Let's go."

  They walked out to the Buick, and for once his dad didn't put up a fight and demand to drive. Thank God. His father's reflexes and road-handling skills had declined precipitously over the past few years, and if there were some way to contact the DMV and get a man's driver's license revoked, Miles would've turned his father in without a second thought. He could only hope that when his father had to get his license renewed next year, he would fail the test.

  The library was surprisingly crowded for a weeknight. Students primarily. Most of them Asian. Aside from the occasional runaway, he seldom came into contact with kids these days, and his perception of the younger generation was formed mostly by movies and television.

  Which was why it surprised him to see what looked like normal, happy, welladjusted,teenagers laughing quietly, talking together in low voices, and copying notes while sitting around large round tables piled with books.

  Perhaps society wasn't doomed after all.

  His father immediately wandered away, and Miles headed over to the bank of monitors and keyboards that had replaced the card catalog. It still felt strange to him to be using a computer in a library, and though the machines were part of both his work and his everyday life, he mourned its intrusion into this world. It seemed incongruous to him. And unnecessary. There'd been an article last week in the Los

  Angeles Times about magnetic storage media and the rapid pace of technological change. The gist of the article was that storing information on computer discs or CDs required translating technology--a machine to read the encrypted information and translate it into words--and that things were moving so quickly that a lot of information was being saved in dying formats and would be impossible to retrieve even ten years hence. Written words, however, needed no interpretive mechanism, and information stored in books and printed on acid-free paper would remain easily accessible far longer than those using newer storage methods.

  Which made him wonder why the library had ever scrapped its card catalog, a series of beautiful oak cabinets that were not only functional but added immeasurably to the library's ambience.

  Sighing, Miles sat down on a stool. He had jotted down several keywords, and he went down the list, typing them in and then writing down each book and periodical reference that appeared. He was working on a case for Graham Donaldson, one of his oldest clients, a lawyer who was currently filing a discrimination suit on behalf of an African American man who'd been fired by Thompson Industries. Miles had already gotten some information from an inside source at the corporation, but he wanted to bolster it with some background. None of the information he'd received from the source was admissible in court, but then Graham was gambling that the case wouldn't even reach that stage. Thompson was extraordinarily concerned about its public image, and Graham was counting on a settlement. Just in case, though, he needed some fallback data.

  It was amazing how easy it was to dig up background in
formation. People on the outside always thought he spent his time walking city streets, canvassing neighborhoods, interviewing people, paying bribes for info, using hidden mikes and cameras to listen in on conversations. But sometimes a

  short trip to the library and a few hours of reading provided him with everything he needed. That wasn't the case here, but he did find two books and one article in a business journal that would prove useful.

  His father was already through, sitting on a bench near the front counter, and the old man stood, silently handing Miles his pile of books. Miles gave the librarian his card and glanced down at the titles his dad had chosen: Past Lives, Future Lives; Perception and Precognition; Witchcraft and Satanism in Early America; and The Prophecies of Nostradamus. He frowned but didn't say anything until the two of them were outside and in the car. Strapping on his shoulder harness, he casually motioned toward the materials between them. "What is this all about?" he asked. "What?" "Your books."

  "Do I have to have my reading list approved by you?" "No, but " "Okay then."

  "But you've never been interested in the occult."

  "I am now." The old man looked at him Stubbornly, but for an instant the defensiveness faltered. A flicker of uncertainty-fear?--crossed his father's features, but it was gone before it really registered.

  "What's going oft?" Miles asked.

  "Nothing."

  "It's not nothing."

  "Just drop it, okay?"

  There was anger in his father's voice, and Miles held up a hand in surrender. "Okay. God, I wasn't trying to make a federal case out of it."

  But he thought of his father's dream and felt uneasy. He was used to working on hunches, following feelings, but it was usually in the pursuit of facts, and it was the nebulous occult aspect of this that troubled him.

  He backed out of his parking spot and pulled onto the street, heading toward home.

  His father changed the subject. "I know you're not seeing anyone right now, but do you have any prospects?"

  "What?" Miles looked at him, surprised. "What brought this on?"

  "I'm just curious. It's not natural for a full-grown man not to be interested in sex."

  "First of all, I don't even want to talk about this with you, and, second of all, who says I'm not interested. "You don't seem like it."

  "I'm going through a dry spell right now."

  "Awful long dry spell."

  "Why are you suddenly so concerned about my love life?" "A man gets to a certain age, he wants to know that his son will be settled and happy and taken care of when he's gone."

  When he's gone.

  Maybe his father hadn't changed the subject after all. Miles kept his tone light. "You planning to die on me?" "I'm just asking." Bob grinned. "Besides, no man likes to think that he's been a failure as a father, that he's raised a son who's a pathetic loser and can't even get a date."

  "Who can't get a date?"

  "When's the last time you went out?"

  "Well, there was Janice. That was almost a kind of sort of semi-date.

  In a way."

  "She was married! And you just went out to lunch!" "She wasn't married. She had a boyfriend."

  "Same difference." Bob shook his head. 'Thank God you're on a never seen a man not ball team.

  I've strike out as much as you."

  "It's not that bad."

  "What about Mary?"

  Miles' face clouded over. "I haven't seen her in a long time." ' ' l'hat's what I mean. Why don't you call her up, ask her out?"

  Miles shook his head. "I can't. I couldn't. Besides, she's probably seeing someone else by now." ,

  "Maybe not. Maybe she's in the same boat you are. Who knows? Maybe she's just waiting for you to call."

  Miles said nothing. He couldn't tell his dad that Mary was not waiting for him to call, that he had seen her outside a movie theater several months ago, dressed to the hilt, looking gorgeous, laughing happily and intimately touching a tall athletic-looking man wearing an expensive sports coat.

  "You can't tell," Bob prodded. "Call her and see. It can't hurt."

  It could hurt, though, Miles thought. He turned away. "No, Dad. I'm not calling her."

  "You'll be alone until you die."

  "I can live with that."

  Bob sighed. 'l'hat's the sad part. I think you could." They drove in silence for several blocks, and it was Bob who finally broke the silence. "You'll never do better than

  Claire. You know that, don't you?" Miles nodded, staring slraight ahead. "I know that." "You should have never let that girl go."

  "I didn't let her go. She wanted out, she wasn't happy, we got a divorce."

  "You could've fought a little harder."

  Miles didn't reply. He'd thought the same thing himself. Many times.

  He'd agreed to the divorce, but he hadn't wanted it. He'd loved her then, and he probably still loved her now, though he told himself that he didn't. It had been five years since the final papers had come through, and not a day went by that he didn't think about her. In small ways usually--a brief second wondering what she'd say about this or that but she'd remained in his life as a ghost, a conscience, a measuring stick in his mind if not a physical presence.

  The truth was, they probably did not have to get divorced. No other people were involved, no other lovers on either of their parts. Her sole complaint with him was that he had too little time for her, that he cared more about his job than he did about his marriage. It wasn't true, but he knew why she felt that way, and it would have been easy for him to correct. If he had just been willing to bend a little, to admit his mistakes, to stop bringing work home, to spend more time with her and be a little more demonstrative with his feelings, they would have been able to survive. He'd known that even then, but some small stubborn part of him had kept him from doing so, had insisted that though the fault was his own, it was her responsibility to solve the problem. If she really loved him, she would understand and forgive him, she would put up with anything he did and be grateful. She was already meeting him more than halfway, but he thought she should have gone all the way, and their problems had escalated from there. Divorce had been the ultimate outcome, and though it was not something he had wanted, he had been unwilling to avoid it.

  Miles glanced over. His father was still looking at him.

  He sighed. "Dad, it's been a long day. Let's just drop it, okay?"

  Bob held up his hands in disingenuous innocence. "Okay. Fine."

  They pulled into the driveway, and Miles parked the car, pulled the emergency brake. Bob picked up his stack of books before getting out, and once again Miles' gaze was drawn to the volumes.

  Witchcraft and Satanism in Early America.

  He picked up his own materials and followed his father into the house.

  Instead of camping out on the couch as he usually did

  and falling asleep to the sounds of sitcoms, Bob retired to his room, bidding his son good night and closing and locking the door.

  The Prophecies of Nostradamus.

  Miles still felt uneasy, and though he got himself a beer and sat on the couch for a couple of hours, trying to sort through the information he'd gathered, he could not really concentrate, and he gave it up early, going to bed well before his usual time of eleven o'clock.

  But he couldn't sleep.

  After tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, he got up, turned on the small television on his dresser, watched part of an exercise infomercial, then turned it off and walked over to the window, staring out through the crack in the curtains at the cloud-shrouded winter moon.

  He thought about Claire, wondered if she was sleeping right now.

  Wondered who she was sleeping with.

  He glanced back at the empty bed. It had been a long time since he'd had sex. And he missed it. He tried to recall what Claire looked like naked, tried to bring to mind the specifics of her form, but time had blurred her body into the generic. Hell, he could not even recall any details a
bout Mary. He remembered places and positions, but the sensual knowledge ordinarily borne of intimacy was not there.

  Perversely, he could see clearly in his mind the nude form of Cherise, a one-night stand from three years ago.

  Sighing, he walked back over to the bed. He masturbated joylessly, perfunctorily, and finally fell asleep thinking of tidal waves and witches and dreams that predicted the end of the world.

  Miles felt tired the next morning when he went to work, and it was noticeable enough that Hal commented on it when they met in the elevator.

  "Looks like you just came back from a long night at the prison orgy."

  Miles smiled wryly. '"l'hanks."

  "1"o quote the great Dionne Warwick, that's what friends are for."

  "You have food in your beard," Miles told him.

  The burly detective quickly ran his fingers through his thick facial hair. "Gone?" , .

  Miles grinned. "I lied."

  "Jackass."

  The doors opened on their floor, and Hal stepped out of the elevator first. He waved to Naomi at the front desk. "Honeybunch! How are you this beautiful morning?"

  The receptionist was on the phone, and she frowned at him as she put her caller on hold. She put down the handset and looked from Hal to Miles. "I know it's foolish to ask, but did either of you read the memo yesterday?" "What memo?" they said in unison.

  Hal looked at Miles, chuckled. "Great minds think alike." Naomi smiled tolerantly. 'fflae memo that was placed in your boxes, the memo stating that the phones will be out of service this morning. They're rewiring for the computers and putting in new fiber-optic lines. They should be finished around eleven or twelve, but until then everything has to go through me. My line and the pay phone are the only two in service."