Walkers

Chapter 10

It was the irregular thwok, thwok of a tennis match on the court outside his apartment that woke Dr. Warren Hovde on Saturday morning. He had left the sliding glass door open during the night with just the screen across the doorway, to let the fresh air in. Marge had taught him to sleep with the window open, winter and summer, and now he found it impossible to sleep otherwise.

He rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Half past eight. A whole day stretched out in front of him with nothing to do. Saturday had always been family day when the kids were little. He and Marge had taken them on picnics or to the beach or to Disneyland. Then when the kids grew older and found their own friends and activities, he and Marge had gone out on their own little trips of exploration in and around Los Angeles. They had found dozens of delightful little shops and restaurants and picnic spots that way, which were not in any guidebooks.

All right, enough of this nostalgic horseshit, he told himself, and rolled out of bed. He did his morning quota of sit-ups, push-ups, and isometrics, then took a shower. It would be a good day for a round of golf, but he had not enjoyed going to the club since he and Marge split up. People didn't come right out and ask questions, but he could tell they were curious. They expected some sort of explanation, and he was not ready to give one.

The night just passed had been a restless one for Warren Hovde. A troubling dream had fragmented his sleep. While he shaved he tried to remember what the dream was about. Then it came to him-Yvonne Carlson, the D.O.A. at the hospital yesterday. His mind, waking or sleeping, would not let go of the contradictions between the condition of the body, dead at least twelve hours, and the accident report, with witnesses seeing Mrs. Carlson getting out of a car and falling to the ground some ten hours after she should have been dead.

After a quick look in his poorly stocked refrigerator, Dr. Hovde went out to a nearby Sambo's for breakfast. He bought a copy of the Times and read it over a breakfast of sausage and eggs. There was no mention, of course, of Yvonne Carlson or the accident. One unspectacular death, more or less, on the streets of Los Angeles was hardly newsworthy.

He finished his breakfast and returned to his apartment at the Marina Village. This morning the sight of all the tanned, energetic young people coming and going depressed him. They all seemed so thoroughly satisfied with themselves, so confident about the direction of their lives. Hovde went inside and sat down to try to catch up on his medical journals.

After less than a hour he gave up. He went to the telephone and punched the number of the West Los Angeles Receiving Hospital. He asked the switchboard operator to connect him with Dr. Breedlove. After a series of clicks and buzzes the pathologist came on the line.

"Hello, Kermit, Warren Hovde here."

"Yeah, Warren, what can I do for you?"

"Remember the woman who came in yesterday afternoon, Yvonne Carlson, D.O.A.?"

"Female Caucasian, fifty-seven."

"Yes, that's her. Did you finish the autopsy?"

"Last night."

"What did you find?"

"Hang on, I'll get the sheet on her."

There was a clunk as Breedlove set the receiver down on something hard. Hovde gazed out the window at the tennis players while he waited for the pathologist to come back on the line.

"Okay, here it is. Cause of death, ventricular fibrillation. Significant findings, congestion of viscera, slight edema of the lungs, and petachial hemorrhages in the conjunctiva, pleura, and pericardium. Irregular charring and blistering of the fingers and palm of right hand. Deep symmetrical burns on the balls of both feet."

"And that adds up to what?" Hovde asked.

"Instantaneous cardiac arrest due to the passage of low-tension current through the body."

"You're telling me she was electrocuted?"

"Exactly."

"And the time of death?"

"Midnight Wednesday, give or take a couple of hours."

"But none of that jibes with the accident report. The woman was seen alive by several witnesses on Thursday afternoon."

"So, like I said at the time, the accident report was fucked up. It wouldn't be the first time. And autopsies do not lie."

"Who identified the body?"

"Let me see…" Paper rattled on the other end of the line. "Here it is. The husband, Avery Carlson. Came in at four o'clock and made a positive I.D."

"Do you have Carlson's address?"

"Yeah." Breedlove read off a street and number in Glendale. Hovde thanked him and hung up.

Now what the hell, he wondered, did he do that for? Everything about the case made him uncomfortable-the wide discrepancies between the accident report and the autopsy findings in the cause and time of Yvonne Carlson's death, her relation if any to Joana Raitt, and Joana's bizarre story of drowning Wednesday night right here in the swimming pool. It was definitely not the kind of thing a nice conservative G.P. should get mixed up in.

With that decided, Warren Hovde went out and got into his car and headed for Glendale.

Tucked in between Burbank and Pasadena, just north of Los Angeles, the city of Glendale backs gingerly up to the San Gabriel Mountains like a fastidious middle-aged lady edging away from raffish fellow passengers on an elevator. Unaffected by the cavortings of its better-publicized neighbors, Glendale had changed little since World War II.

The Carlsons' house was a white frame bungalow on a quiet street lined with tall palm trees. The house was freshly painted, with apple-green shutters at the windows. The square of lawn that lay between the house and the sidewalk showed the results of affectionate care. Dr. Hovde followed the flagstone path to the front door and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a dark, slim woman in her mid-thirties.

"Yes?"

"How do you do. I'm looking for Mr. Avery Carlson."

"May I ask what it's about?"

"It's about Mrs. Carlson. I'm Dr. Warren Hovde." He had learned, not long out of medical school, that the title Doctor opened more doors than a twenty-dollar bill.

"Just a minute, please."

The woman left the door ajar and moved out of sight. Hovde could hear her conversation with someone in the room adjoining the small hallway.

"Who is it?" said a low-pitched man's voice.

"It's a doctor. He asked for you, Daddy."

"I don't want to talk to anybody unless it's really important."

"He said it's something about Mama."

"What's his name?"

"Dr. Hovde, I think he said."

A pause, then, "I don't remember him. But never mind, I'll talk to him."

A man of about sixty came to the door. The flesh of his face sagged, and there were brownish patches under his eyes from lack of sleep.

"I'm Avery Carlson," he said.

"Mr. Carlson, I'm very sorry about your loss. I hope you'll forgive me for intruding at this time."

"Yes, thank you," the man said absently. "What is it you want?"

"I was at the hospital yesterday when your wife was brought in, and there are some things about her case that I find confusing. I'd appreciate it if you could clear them up for me."

"I don't suppose this is idle curiosity, Doctor?"

"Not at all. You see, in a roundabout way your wife's accident is connected with a patient of mine. It could be very helpful to me, and beneficial to my patient, if I knew more of the facts."

Avery Carlson studied his face for a moment, then apparently decided he was sincere. "Come inside."

Hovde entered the neat little living room. The furniture was sturdy and old, and wore bright, fresh slipcovers.

Carlson gestured toward the woman who had answered the door. "This is my daughter Nadine. She's staying with me until…for a few days."

"How do you do," said Hovde.

"Nice to meet you, Doctor. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Please don't go to any trouble."

"No trouble, it's already made."

Nadine went out through an archway into the dining room, then through a swinging door that led to the kitchen.

"Have a seat, Doctor," Carlson said. "You'll excuse my manners, I hope. I'm not quite thinking straight yet."

Hovde chose the sofa. Carlson settled himself stiffly into an overstuffed chair facing him. Nadine returned with a tray bearing coffee, cream, sugar, and a plate of oatmeal cookies. She set the tray down on the coffee table, placed one cup before Dr. Hovde, and carried the other to her father.

Hovde added cream to his cup and smiled his thanks to Nadine. Carlson set his cup on the floor next to his chair and forgot about it.

"All right, Doctor, what can I tell you?"

Dr. Hovde let his gaze range over the cozy room. There was an antique pendulum clock on the mantel, framed graduation pictures, wedding pictures, baby pictures. Little figurines of china and glass, well dusted, stood on a three-sided knicknack shelf in one corner. Over the fireplace was a framed, blown-up photograph of a desert sunset. Hovde searched for words. How did you tell a man who lived in a solid, ordinary, old-fashioned house like this that you suspect his wife may have been walking around half a day after she died?

Finally he said, "I wonder if you could tell me, Mr. Carlson, if anything unusual happened to your wife during the day before the accident?"

"Unusual? What do you mean?"

"Anything at all that was a change of pattern. Anything different from the way she normally acted or spoke."

Carlson looked at him intently. For the first time the hurt, tired eyes showed a spark, of interest.

"As a matter of fact, there was a whole lot different about the way she acted."

"In what way?"

"First I'd like to know why you'd ask me a question like that."

"It's a matter of the medical reports. It would help a lot in completing them properly to have some background information." Well, that was more or less the truth, Hovde told himself, and it was sure better than scaring hell out of the guy.

Carlson pulled on his lower lip for a moment. "All right," he said finally, "if it will help someone I'll tell you about it." He looked over at his daughter.

"If you don't need me for a while," she said, "I think I'll run down to the store and pick up something for dinner." She nodded to Hovde and went out the front door.

"The whole business started Wednesday night," Carlson said, "about midnight."

"Midnight?" Hovde jumped on it, remembering the pathologist's estimate of the time of death.

Carlson looked at him curiously. "That's right. I was working up in Santa Barbara on a construction site. That's my business, construction. We finished up late Wednesday night, but I decided to drive on home instead of spending the night up there in a motel like I do sometimes. I called Yvonne and told her I was coining. She likes… she liked to know when to expect me.

"I got home about eleven-thirty, and she was in the tub. I looked in on her and she said she wanted to be all clean and sweet-smelling for… well, that's not important. Anyway, she seemed perfectly all right. Then, a little while later while I was changing my clothes in the bedroom, I heard her scream. Then there was this big thump in the bathroom, like somebody falling down. I went running in, and there was Yvonne stretched out on the floor, her mouth open and… well, she didn't look good. She had a hair dryer in her hand, and it was still running. I saw right away what had happened and yanked the cord out of the wall. But Yvonne didn't move."

Carlson's voice choked off, and he sat working his hands together, staring down at them.

To give the man a chance to recover himself, Hovde said, "Do you mind if I take a look at the bathroom?"

Avery Carlson did not raise his eyes. "It's at the end of the hall."

Hovde walked down the short hall and found the bathroom. It was sparkling clean, like the rest of the house. On a glass shelf over the toilet tank rested the hair dryer. It was one of the old bulky models that had been supplanted in recent years by more-compact versions. The cord was not plugged into the wall.

He picked up the dryer and examined it. At the base of the handle, where the double wire entered through a hole in the heavy plastic, an eighth of an inch of the rubber insulation had worn away. It bared just enough of the naked copper wire to make contact with the skin if it were held just so.

As he replaced the dryer, Hovde's eye caught a rolled-up pink shag bathmat that had been stuffed into the wastebasket beside the sink. He pulled the mat out and unrolled it. In the center were two burn marks, a foot and a half apart, each the size of a nickel.

A voice behind him said, "Yes, that's where she was standing."

Hovde looked around, surprised to see Avery Carlson standing in the doorway.

"She stepped out of the shower onto the rug there, and it was soaking wet. Grounded her, I guess."

Hovde nodded without saying anything.

"At first I thought she was dead," Carlson went on in a flat voice. "She wasn't breathing, and I couldn't find any heartbeat. I didn't know what to do, so I ran out to the living room and grabbed the phone. I was just dialing the operator to get help when I heard her voice behind me."

"You heard Mrs. Carlson's voice?" Hovde asked carefully.

Carlson tooked the scorched bathmat from Hovde, rolled it up, and shoved it back into the wastebasket. He turned and walked back out to the living room. Hovde followed.

"Yes, it was Yvonne's voice," Carlson said when they were sitting down again. "I turned around from the phone and saw her standing right there where we came in just now. She was… she didn't have any clothes on, and she looked, I don't know, funny."

"How did she look?" Hovde persisted,

"She was pale, her whole body, too pale. And her eyes were glittery and didn't seem to focus right. I figured it was the effect of the electric shock, and I was just glad she was alive."

"What happened after that?" Hovde asked gently.

"First I tried to put my arms around her, but she backed off real fast, and that wasn't like her. Then I wanted to call a doctor because of the way she looked and all."

Carlson seemed to lose his train of thought.

"Did you call a doctor?" Hovde said.

"Yvonne wouldn't let me. Didn't want anything to do with a doctor. Even grabbed me by the wrist when I started to reach for the phone. A really strong grip she had, too. Lots stronger than normal for her.

"Okay, if she didn't want to see a doctor, I wasn't going to force her. I said, 'Let's go to bed,' but she said she wasn't sleepy. I said, 'Okay, I'll sit up with you.' But she didn't want to sit either. She walked, that's all, just walked. Around and around the house, out to the kitchen, back in here, through the bedrooms, then the kitchen again. I couldn't get her to sit still. It was like she was pacing the floor, nervous, waiting for something."

"How long did that go on?"

"All night, as far as I know. I dropped off to sleep finally on the davenport, and when I woke up she was still at it-walking, walking, stopping every now and then to look out the window. Some time while I was asleep she put some clothes on, but her hair was still all messed up."

"Did she say anything to you during all this time?" Hovde asked.

"Not much, just a few words. And when she talked her voice was funny. Empty-sounding, like there wasn't any breath behind it."

"She didn't sleep?"

"Not that I know of. Didn't eat anything either. When I woke up and saw the shape she was in, I called my office and told them I wouldn't be in until later. I went out to the kitchen and made us a nice big breakfast-I used to do that on Sundays-but Vonnie wouldn't eat a bite of it." Carlson's voice caught, and he sat silently working his hands for a minute before he continued.

"All this time she didn't do anything but pace the floor and look out the window. Then, all of a sudden, about eleven o'clock, I guess, she grabbed her car keys off the mantel and headed out to the wagon. I ran after her. 'Where you going?' I asked her.

"She didn't even look at me. 'There's something I have to do,' she said, just like that. And that's all. She got in the car and drove off, and that's the last I saw of her. The next I heard was about three o'clock when I got the call from the police."

Carlson passed a hand roughly across his lips. "I guess you know what happened after that."

When he saw that Avery Carlson was not going to say any more, Hovde stood up and started moving toward the door. After a moment Carlson got up too.

"I want to thank you for giving me this much of your time," Hovde said. "And again, please accept my sympathy."

"Sure. Thanks," Carlson said.

Dr. Hovde left the neat, clean little house and drove back toward Los Angeles. The story Carlson had told left him deeply disturbed. And beyond that, the man's grief, still not fully realized, was a darker echo of his own loneliness for Marge…

"Oh, damn, damn, damn!" Hovde swore as he pulled onto the freeway heading south. He had the answers he came to get, but was he any better off? He knew things now he did not want to know.

There was simply no natural explanation for what had happened to Yvonne Carlson. No amount of time spent researching in medical libraries could answer the frightening questions raised by the evidence. There was no avoiding the fact that Yvonne Carlson had died at midnight on Wednesday. The autopsy showed that, and the woman's husband was a witness to it, even if he didn't know it. When she lay on the bathroom floor with the faulty hair dryer in her hand and 110 volts surging through her body, she was dead. And yet, thirteen hours later she had been behind the wheel of a station wagon that had almost run down Joana Raitt. The same Joana Raitt who had experienced a weird "death" by drowning the night before. Coincidence? As much as Warren Hovde wanted to believe there was no connection between the two women, he could not buy it. Joana was involved, no question. And what was more, Dr. Hovde had an overwhelming premonition that she was in danger.

When he got back to the Marina Village, Hovde gave no attention to the graceful parade of boats heading out the channel toward the ocean. He hurried into his apartment, fighting against a growing, irrational sense of urgency. He looked through his notebook and found Joana Raitt's telephone number. He punched it out on the pushbuttons, then sat trying to decide what he would say to her. In spite of his better judgment, he was involved in this thing now, and he had to do what he could to help Joana. To warn her.

The receiver burred repeatedly in his ear. After ten rings he gave up. She was not at home. Hovde left his apartment and hurried around to the poolside. There lithe-bodied young men and women played happily in the water where this nightmare had begun three days ago. The doctor ignored them and jogged across the tiled deck to Glen Early's apartment. He pushed the buzzer, leaned on it, but there was no response from inside.

All right, he had done everything he could. Whatever happened from now on, he need feel no guilt. He walked slowly past the pool and back to his own apartment. He closed the sliding glass door between him and the tennis players and drew the draperies.

He sat down and tried to concentrate on the medical journals he had set aside earlier. It was no good, the printed words would not combine into coherent sentences. They swam finally before his eyes, and he saw in his mind Yvonne Carlson, all pallid skin and glittery eyes, walking… walking.