The Walking Page 7

  It sounded like a fantasy, a dream, but he'd heard that the Mormons were making for themselves just such a place, that their prophet had led them across the desert sands to a special spot their God had picked out for-them, a place where they could live among their own kind and be free to practice their own ways. His people could do the same. Such an idea was not inconceivable.

  But they were so hard to find these days. The ones who had not been killed had gone into hiding, fleeing like himself into the wilderness or keeping secret their true natures amid the normal residents of their communities. He looked again at the sign-WITCHES WILL BE EXECUTED

  --then bade his horse turn around. He was getting no concrete feelings from up ahead, but the graveyard and

  the sign were warning enough, and even without a definite reading he could tell that this was one town he did not want to visit.

  He would return to the foothills and then travel south through them until he was far enough away from this nameless community to once again head west. He would trade his pelts elsewhere, in a bigger settlement, one where he would be less likely to be noticed.

  Just in case, he cloaked himself in a protective spell, then pushed his horse into galloping back toward the hills.

  Now

  Muzak carols over hard-to-hear speakers. Decorations that were nothing more than products sold inside the stores they adorned. A skinny Hispanic Santa Claus kids could meet only if their parents paid to have their picture taken with him.

  Miles stood unmoving in the center of the jostling crowd. Christmas seemed cheap and depressingly pointless to him this year, its practitioners yuppified and smugly materialistic. Ordinarily, he rejoiced in the trappings of the season, but all of the joy had gone out of it for him. It reminded him of Halloween, a grassroots celebration that had been turned into a buying contest by the newly affluent.

  He was at the mall to purchase presents, but he realized that he didn't really have any presents to buy. A few small tokens for people at the office, gifts for his sister and her family. That was it. He had no wife, no girlfriend, no significant other, and though he usually celebrated the holiday with his dad, there was a distinct possibility that his father might not even be here come Christmas day.

  Happy holidays.

  Miles sat down heavily on a bench in front of Sears, feeling as if a great weight had been placed upon his shoulders. He understood now why people buried themselves in their work. It kept them from having to deal with the depressing realities of their lives.

  Claire had never been one to look back, to dwell on past

  mistakes. She had told him once that life was a ride and all you could do was hold on, face forward, and see it out to the end. It was too painful looking at where you'd been or where you were. The best thing to do was hang on and enjoy the next curve, the next hill the next drop the next any thing. He found himself wondering if she still adhered to that philosophy. Did that mean that she never thought about him, never had any memories, good or bad, of their marriage, of the time they'd spent together?

  The thought depressed the hell out of him.

  Feeling empty, feeling numb, he stared blankly into the crowd of holiday shoppers. The people he saw were almost indistinguishable in their happiness, and he envied them.

  He leaned back on the bench against the brick wall of

  Sears, looking at the rush of people. Gradually, one face began to differentiate itself from the rest, a wrinkled old lady's visage that drew his attention because her gaze remained fully, unwaveringly focused on him.

  Miles blinked, caught off guard.

  The woman broke from the rest of the crowd, heading straight over to his bench.

  He shivered involuntarily, a slight chill passing through him as his eyes met hers. There was something wrong here.

  As a private investigator, he dealt in facts. He didn't believe in intuition or ESP or anything he couldn't see, hear, or record. But the apprehension he felt was not the result of conscious thought or decision. It was visceral and inst inc The old lady stood before him, dressed in clothes that did not match. "Bob!" she said, grinning broadly.

  The effect was unnerving. That huge smile seemed in congruous on the small wrinkled face. It reminded him of something in his childhood, something he could not re member but that he knew had frightened him, and again a chill passed through his body.

  "Bob!"

  He forced himself to look at the old lady. "I'm sorry," he said. "You have me confused with someone else." "Bob Huerdeen!"

  The haft prickled on the back of his neck. This was too weird.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "It's me, Bob! You know me!"

  "I don't know you and I'm not Bob." He took a deep breath, decided to admit it. "I'm Bob's son, Miles."

  She leaned forward conspiratorily, pressing her ancient face almost against his. He smelled medicine and mouthwash. "She's going after the dam builders, too, Bob. Not just us." She backed away, nodding to herself, still grinning though the edges of the smile were starting to fade.

  The old lady was crazy. Either senile or schizo. She had obviously known his father at some point, and she had enough brain cells left to be able to spot the family resemblance, but other than that, she was off the deep end.

  He stood, hoping he'd be able to make excuses and just walk away, but prepared to confront her if necessary. "I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go."

  She reached out, grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, "It's not just us, Bob! It's the dam builders, too!"

  "I know," he said politely. "But I really do have to go." "Don't let her catch you, Bob! Don't let her catch you!" "I won't," he promised, pulling away.

  He thought she'd pursue him, badgering him all the way about her crazy concerns, but she let him go, remained standing in front of the Sears bench, and he hurried toward the mall exit, more rattled by the old lady than he wanted to admit.

  Darkness.

  Low whispers. a..

  Miles held his breath, " awakened because he'd drunk too much tonight and desperately had to take a leak. Ordinarily, he slept straight through until morning. He'd even slept through two major earthquakes.

  But tonight his bladder had woken him up, and he had heard the sound of breathy, hushed voices in the otherwise silent house.

  Again, low whispers. "

  He still felt a little light-headed--the effects of the alcohol had not entirely worn off--and at first he thought he'd imagined the sounds.

  But when he sat up and concentrated and could still hear them, he started to think that he was not alone.

  He could not make out what was being said, but he thought he heard his father's name in the whispers, and for some reason that made him think of the old lady in the mall.

  He got quickly out of bed, turned on the light, threw open his bedroom door.

  Silence.

  He stood there for a moment listening, unmoving. Whatever had been there was now gone, and he waited another minute or two before deciding that he'd been right the first time and had imagined the sounds. God knows, he'd drunk enough last night to induce hallucinations. That and the stress would make anyone start heating voices.

  He walked down the hall to the bathroom His father was coming home tomorrow.. today. Audra had prepared the bedroom for him, had helped install the new bed and other medical amenities, and she'd be meeting them both at the hospital, coming home with them to help his dad get settled in. Bob was better. He'd definitely improved since those first few days, and he was actually able to talk now, though his speech was still somewhat unclear.

  But he wasn't well, and despite Audra's cheery promises, Miles knew he never would be again. This was the best he was ever going to be. Most likely, he would have a series of increasingly debilitating strokes over the next year or two before all of the shocks to his system finally wore his body out completely.

  Miles examined his face in the bathroom mirror as he took a piss. He looked tired and haggard. Granted, it was after midnight, b
ut the toll taken on his appearance was not one of sleep deprivation. It was stress, pure and simple. He found himself wondering if he would have to set his alarm from now on in order to check on his dad in the middle of the night. Maybe he'd even have to wake up and give his father some sort of medication at strange ungodly hours. No matter what, he had the feeling he wouldn't be getting a full night's sleep from now on.

  It would have been easier if Bob had died instantly.

  He felt guilty for even having such a thought, selfish for putting his own concerns above the well-being of his father, but this late at night he was incapable of lying to himself, and he had to admit that he dreaded the prospect of taking care of an invalid. He flushed the toilet, walked back down the hall to the bedroom.

  He figured he'd lay awake all night, tossing and mming unable to stop the flood of negative scenarios in his brain, but he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

  In the second before he succumbed, he thought he heard the whispers again.

  He thought he heard his father's name.

  Miles was awakened by the alarm, and he followed his Usual routine: showering and shaving before going out to the kitchen and making his breakfast.

  His plan was to work in the morning and take the after noon off. He'd been taking a lot of time off lately, and while the agency was pretty lenient and understanding, he felt guilty. Of course, he had never used a sick day in all the time he'd worked there, so these absences were long overdue; but he felt bad about it nonetheless.

  It was cold and foggy out, and as he ate a breakfast of toast and coffee and watched the morning news, the traffic reporter identified accidents and Sig alerts on the 5, 10, and 710 freeways. He decided to take surface streets to the of rice and he ate more quickly than usual, wanting to give himself an extra fifteen minutes.

  The car was covered with condensation, and he threw the briefcase in the car and washed the vehicle's windows off with the hose. In Anaheim, where he'd grown up, foggy mornings had always smelled of stewed tomatoes from the Hunt factory in adjacent Fullerton. Although ordinarily there was no odor, fog seemed to draw out the scent and disperse it. Now, even after all these years, every time he saw fog and did not smell tomatoes, he could not help thinking that there was something wrong.

  Everyone else must have seen the same traffic report he had because the streets were crowded, and even with the lead time he was nearly twenty minutes late for work.

  Hal chided him for showing up at all. "I used to think you were just a workaholic. Now I know you're a souless automaton. What kind of lunatic would come into the office on the day his dad was being released from the hospital after having a major stroke?"

  "Me," Miles told him.

  'that's sad, bud. That's really sad.

  The truth was, he should have stayed home. He had a lot of things to do here, but he got none of them done. He found it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything work related and he ended up staring out the window at the fog.

  Hal left the office for an hour or so, and while he was

  gone, Naomi came over to tell him that no one would care if he took off.

  Miles gave her a grateful smile. "I'm fine."

  She shook her head, rushing quickly back to her desk to answer a ringing phone. "Stubborn," she said. "You are so stubborn. When Hal returned, Miles was again staring absently out at the fog.

  "You still here. he said. "I thought Naomi was going to tell you to go home."

  "She did.

  Hal snorted. "Fypical."

  Miles examined the pencil he was twirling in his fingers. "Do you believe in the supernatural?"

  Though he did not look over at Hal, he could feel the bearded man's scowl. "What are you talking about? You mean, like ghosts and demons and crap?"

  "Yeah." He continued to look at the pencil. "You've been in this business a long time. Haven't you ever come across something you didn't understand or couldn't explain?" "Why? What happened?"

  "Nothing. I'm just wondering."

  "You're not just wondering. What is it?"

  Miles put the pencil down, looked over at his friend. "All right, it's my dad. Ever since he had that stroke he's been... different."

  "Well, of course--"

  "No, it's not that. It's something else. It's like. I don't know.

  Sometimes it just seems like he's a different person. He looks like my dad and he sounds like my dad, but every once in a while we'll be talking and something will change. I don't know how to put it any better than that. Something shifts. It's nothing concrete, nothing specific, but I just feel something."

  "Sounds like you're the one with the problem, not him."

  Miles sighed. "Maybe so. maybe so. Last night I could have sworn I heard voices in the house. Whispering voices. And they were saying my dad's name."

  "Voices like what? Like ghosts?

  Miles shrugged. "I guess."

  "You are going off the deep end."

  "I'm probably just afraid of my dad coming home. It was all right, him being in the hospital. That's where you're supposed to be if you're sick. But now he'll be home, where he used to be when he was well, and he'll still be sick. I think I'm just freaked about those two worlds colliding." 'that why you're here today?" "Probably."

  "You know, I used to wonder what would happen if my wife got a brain tumor."

  Miles smiled wryly. "You've always been a barrel of fun." "I'm serious. What if she lived but it changed her personality, made her into a completely different person? Would I still love her?"

  "A shallow barrel of fun."

  "No. Because I'm not sure if I love her personality, the person I know, the person she is now, or if I love some nebulous spirit that is her true essence, something unique that would still be there even if her personality did a complete one-eighty. You know what I mean? It's a question of faith, I guess. Do I think she's just a sum of her experiences and genetics and the chemicals that determine her behavior, and it's that surface woman I love, or do I think she has a soul? Is it that soul I love? Do you see what I'm getting at?" Miles nodded, sighed. "I'm afraid I do."

  Hal walked over, clapped on the back. "Dont we, bud. You can hack it I just wish I didn't have to."

  Hal headed off to the break room, and Miles leaned back in his chair, staring up at the acoustic tiled ceiling. He had

  not admitted it to himself until he'd said it; but there was something different about his dad these days, something that try as he might he could not attribute to the stroke.

  The phone on his desk rang, and Miles picked it "Hello?"

  "Mr. Huerdeen?" It was Marina Lg- was.

  "I told you, Miles."

  "I need you to come over to my father's house," she said. "Now."

  There was an urgency in her voice he hadn't heard before, a tightness that sounded like barely controlled panic. "What is it?" he asked, though he knew she was not going to answer.

  "I don't want to talk over the phone."

  "I'll be right there."

  "Do you need the address?"

  "I have it. Give me twenty minutes."

  He opened his lower desk drawer, grabbed his mini-tape recorder, threw it into his briefcase along with an extra notebook. He checked the clock. Ten-fifteen. His dad wasn't scheduled to be released until two. He should have plenty of time.

  I won't be back," he told Naomi. "Anything important, leave a message."

  She smiled softly at him. "Good luck, Miles. I hope your father's okay."

  All the way to Santa Monica, he wondered what it was that Marina couldn't tell him over the phone. She'd sounded freaked, as though she'd discovered something she hadn't been prepared for and didn't want to deal with.

  Liam Connor lived in an older neighborhood of single family Spanish-style homes with white stucco walls and red tile roofs. The lawns were all neatly mowed and nicely manicured, and the juxtaposition of the elderly residents' boat like Buicks and dusty Pontiacs with their younger neighbors'

 
well-polished Mercedes Benzes and BMWs made it clear that this was a street on the rise.

  Marina and a young man Miles assumed to be her husband walked out as he pulled into the driveway. They'd obviously been waiting for him, and they reached his car before he finished opening the door.

  Marina tried to smile. 'thank you for coming out Mr. .... uh, Miles."

  He nodded at her, smiled politely at the man. "Gordon," the man said.

  "I'm Marina's husband."

  Miles glanced toward the house. "Is your father here?" he asked.

  Marina and her husband shared a glance.

  He caught it, and his antennae immediately went up. "Did something happen to him?"

  Marina shook her head. "No. Nothing like that."

  "What is it, then? What couldn't you tell me over the phone?"

  "It'sit's something he did. Something he wrote. We have to show you."

  The two of them started across the lawn toward the house.

  Miles followed. "Is your

  "He's in his room," Gordon said. "He... he doesn't want to see you."

  They walked inside. The interior of the house was hipper than Miles had expected. Instead of framed family photographs and reproductions of generic landscape paintings in the living room, there was an original abstract expressionist painting on one wall, a grouping of antique western memorabilia on another. The furniture was low and modern, and there was an enormous large-screen TV. The hardwood floor gleamed to perfection.

  "I still don't understand why your father won't cooperate with this investigation. You said he felt threatened. He even went to the police. How did he go from that point to

  being totally uninterested in finding who is harassing him?"

  "I don't understand it either," Marina admitted. "But..." she trailed off.

  "But what?" he prodded.

  "But you have to see what he wrote." She and Gordon led him into what looked like a den or office: a small cramped room filled with overflowing shelves and boxes piled atop a worktable, everything dominated by a massive old-fashioned rolltop desk.