Walkers

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.

"What… the… fuck… 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, shit, fuck, goddamn!" 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 Saturday 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 titles 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 4…SAINT 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 appetite 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 passages, 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 clusters of ferns and oleander bushes. Peter started toward the house at a trot.

A sound from close behind made him pull up suddenly. Crashing 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.

God 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.

The shout never left Peter's throat. In a single swift motion the big man brought up the dangling thing he carried and whipped it around Peter's neck, cutting off his breath instantly.

Peter's hands flew to his throat, his fingers clawing for air. His sense of touch flashed the brain the irrelevant message that he was being strangled by a silk necktie. The more he struggled, the tighter drew the noose.

The face of the big man swam and wavered before Peter's eyes. Pinpoints of light danced in the darkness. The pressure on his throat was agonizing. Peter's last clear mental image was of a Tarot card-The Hanged Man. He heard, rather than felt, the soft crunch when his larynx collapsed. It was the end of all sensation.

The big man, still gripping the tie that cut into Peter's neck, dragged the inert form across the grass and into a thick clump of ferns out of sight from the house or from the street. Then he turned back toward the house and resumed the stiff, loping walk toward Joana's door.