Walkers (12 page)

The planchette almost jumped out from under his fingers. It dropped to the second row of letters and held for an instant on the
W
. Skimming over the board now, it quickly spelled out the answer:
WALKERS
.

Peter waited for more, but the planchette rested. He could feel it vibrating under his fingers, as though there were a tiny motor humming inside.

"I don't understand. What does that mean? Is it a name?"

Again:
WALKERS
. Nothing more.

It made no sense. Keeping his fingers on the planchette, Peter rolled his head to wipe the dripping

sweat from his chin onto the shoulder of his shirt. He searched for another way to ask the same question.

"This danger to Joana and me," he said slowly, "this... death, from what direction will it come?"

BEYOND
.

Damn! He still knew nothing. Try again. "Who, or what, must we be on guard against."

WALKERS
.

An exasperated curse formed in Peter's throat, but then the planchette moved again under his fingers. It dropped down from the double row of letters to the line of numerais. There it came to rest on the number 4. And there it stayed.

"Walkers? Walkers 4? I don't understand. What does it mean?"

The planchette quivered, but did not move.

Another question. Ask it something else. Peter's head ached like fury. There was blood on the inside of his lip where he had bitten it. What to ask? When, that was it. He had to phrase the question carefully. He squeezed his eyes shut and the tears ran down his face.

"This danger, when will it come?"

The planchette shivered lightly under his touch, but stayed at rest.

"When, damn you, when will it come." Peter found himself shouting.

The planchette seemed to withdraw from him a fraction of an inch.

"No, look, I'm sorry." God, I must be crazy, apologizing to a Ouija baard. "What I mean is, do we have a deadline? Is there a crucial time for me? For Joana Raitt?"

Reluctantly, in little starts and stops, the planchette began to move again. It traveled back up to the letters.
S
-
A
-
I
-
N
-
T
, pause,
J
-
O
-
H
-
N
.

"Saint John? What the hell is that?" Peter was shouting openly now, but he could not control himself. "Damn it, I don't want riddles! I asked when! The danger...the death..what is the deadline?"

WALKERS 4. SAINT JOHN
.

"I don't understand!" Peter heard his own voice screaming, and fought for control. Ask the thing something else. Have to get the answers now. This may be the last chance.

Speaking slowly and deliberately he said, "How can we avert this danger? How can we escape death?"

The planchette jerked as though an electrical charge had shot through it, then dropped to the bottom of the board. The pointer came to rest on the word
Goodbye
.

"No!" Peter cried. "You can't stop, I'm not finished. I don't understand the message. I have to have more information."

Somewhere in one of the canyons a solitary church bell tolled.

Under Peter's straining fingers the planchette went dead. Abruptly there was nothing at all mystical about it. It was just a light wooden platform with three felt-tipped legs and a pointer. There was no use asking it any more questions. It would not move again, and Peter knew it.

He collapsed back onto the love seat. His mouth was parched, his fingers cramped into the clawed position he had held on the planchette. He sagged back against the cushions and breathed raggedly for several minutes with his eyes closed.

WALKERS 4? SAINT JOHN?
What the hell did it mean? The key to it all must be there somewhere,

could he but find it. He ground his teeth and tortured his mind, but came up with no meanings for the cryptic messages.

Peter massaged his eyes with his fingers. He opened them and blinked. Through the window he could see the sky slate-gray over the black shoulders of the mountains. It was coming on to dawn. He cursed aloud. He had sat up all night with that damned Ouija board and didn't know fuck-all more than when he started.

The smart thing to do now, he told himself, would be to get the hell to bed. Sleep. Refresh his spent mind, soothe his aching body. Then, after a few hours in the sack, he could give things a fresh look and maybe figure out what the hell was meant by
WALKERS 4...SAINT JOHN
.

Yes, sleep would be the smart thing to do now, no doubt about it. But hell, Peter thought, he hadn't done anything smart for several days. No use trying to start now. Besides, he felt in the very marrow of his bones the urgency of learning the answers to his questions.

Moving stiffly, he picked up the Ouija board and planchette, carried them across the room, and returned them to the bookshelf. From the writing desk he took the deck of Tarot cards. He peeled away the silk scarf, letting it float to the floor, and carried the deck back with him to the table. He sank heavily onto the love seat, shuffled the cards, cut them, and once again began laying out the Keltic cross.

The window was all the way open, letting in the crisp scent of evergreen. It mingled with the raw-wood smell of the cabin in a bracing combination no laboratory could reproduce. Joana rolled over in the narrow bed and nuzzled Glen Early's bare shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head. "Comfortable?"

"I don't ever want to move."

"We'll probably have to when the next renters move into the cabin.''

"I suppose so. What time is it?"

Glen reached down to the floor on his side of the bed and groped around until he found his wristwatch.

He brought it up and looked at it.

"Six o'clock."

"A.M. or P.M?"

"P.M."

"Damn, that means our weekend is almost over," Joana said.

"Almost."

"Do you realize we spent the entire forty-eight hours right here in bed?"

"We did not," Glen said. "Saturday we walked down to the little store for food and beer, and just this morning we took a hike up the trail by the lake."

"That's right," Joana said, "I guess I forgot about those." She rubbed a hand over Glen's naked torso. He had crisp, curly chest hair, a flat stomach, nice narrow hips, and...

"Are you trying to start something?" he said.

"Just keep something going."

He rolled over to face her. Joana looked deeply into his eyes. He kissed her and she returned it, her mouth open and eager. His hand moved down over the smooth curve of her back and came to rest on her bottom. She felt his rising sexual excitement against her thighs. She opened her legs. Glen's hand came around from behind her and slid into the damp nest between her legs.

Joana gasped as his strong fingers stroked her. She said, "I'm ready any time you are." Her voice was hoarse and whispery.

Glen threw off the sheet that covered them and shifted his position. Joana reached down to guide him into her. He was hard and hot, and she could feel his pulse throb in the big vein that ran along the bottom of his penis.

He rolled on top of her and she pulled him down, mashing her breasts against his chest. He was gentle at first and easy as he slid the length of him into her, then out. Gradually his movements became more insistent, even fierce, as the climax approached. She felt his release and the hot spurt of juices an instant before her own. Their bodies clung together, heaving, shuddering, then slowly quieting. Joana pressed her legs together, holding him inside.

"I love you, Joana," he said.

"Me too, you."

"Why don't we get married?"

She drew back her head and looked at him. "Did I hear right just now?"

"If you heard me ask you to marry me, you heard right," he said.

"You're kidding."

"Would I kid you in this position?"

"
Especially
in this position."

"Well, I mean it. How about it?"

Joana's entire body tingled electrically. She felt herself getting aroused all over again.

"You have such a romantic way with words," she said with her mouth on his.

"If you want, I'll do it later in rhyme, on bended knee."

"That would be nice."

"Seriously, Joana, I really want to be married to you. Spending these weekends together is great, and I'm always glad when we can get together during the week, but the days in between seem wasted. I don't want to take a chance on losing you."

"You mean it, don't you."

"Hell yes, I mean it."

"What about just moving in together. Dispense With all the paperwork and stuff.''

"I thought about that, but to tell you the truth, I don't think it would work for me. There's just enough middle-class morality in my upbringing to make me uncomfortable with the idea. So I guess if we do it, it's going to have to be legal."

"Ah, my Glen, I do love you."

"Then how about it?"

"All right."

The new commitment acted on both of them as a powerful aphrodisiac, and it was another hour before they rolled out of bed and showered together to get ready for the trip home.

They talked quietly together about getting married as Glen steered the Camaro down the darkening road out of the mountains. They agreed they would not make any big deal out of the wedding, just tell a few close friends, then do it. They decided October would be a good time, right after the World Series.

As they came out of the mountains the road straightened, heading for the San Bernardino Freeway. The conversation lapsed. Joana's buoyant mood and her happy thoughts of the future dimmed, and the lurking fear crept back into the car with her.

During most of the weekend she had been able to pretend that the terrible thing in the swimming pool had never happened, and to keep out of her mind the events that had followed. But now they were returning from their cabin in the sky to the real world, and somewhere in this world lurked an unnamed menace. Joana laid a hand on Glen's thigh. He put his hand over hers for a moment and smiled at her. The bucket seats in the Camaro prevented her from moving as close to him as she would have liked.

They were both silent as they joined the freeway parade of people returning home to Los Angeles from the weekend. Glen had to give his full attention to his driving, and Joana did not feel like talking anyway. She snapped on the car radio and found an FM station that was playing easy-listening rock. For the remainder of the trip she closed her eyes and let Kris Kristofferson and Linda Ronstadt take over.

It was ten o'clock when Glen pulled up at the house on Beachwood Drive. He parked behind Joana's Datsun, and they walked together up the path through the shrubbery that led to her house.

At the front door Glen set down her bag and kissed her. Joana clung to him. For a reason she could not explain, she felt like crying.

"Glen?"

"Hmm?"

"We don't have to, you know."

"Have to what?"

"Get married."

He looked at her, his eyes deep and serious. "I know we don't. Are you having second thoughts?"

"No, not me. I just thought that you, up there with the trees and the moon and the cabin and all that romantic stuff, might have, well, got carried away."

Glen took both her hands in his. "Joana, hear me. I love you. I mean I really, flat-out love you. And I want to marry you. You are the most important thing in my life."

She squeezed his hands. "But aren't you scared? About getting married, I mean?"

"Sure I am. A man would be a fool not to be a little scared. What about you?"

"I am too, a little. But I'll tell you one thing, I'm sure not scared enough to say no. Mister, you got yourself engaged."

Glen tilted her chin up, but before he could kiss her, the telephone bell shrilled inside the house.

Joana frowned. "Who would be calling me at this hour?" She unlocked the door. "Come in for a minute, Glen. I'll take care of whoever's on the phone, then we can say good night properly."

He followed her inside and closed the door.

Joana hurried to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing. The voice that spoke to her over the wire was high-pitched and agitated.

"Joana, thank God I finally got you. Where have you been all day?"

"I've been out. Who is this?"

"Peter. Peter Landau. Listen, I've got to talk to you. I think I've figured it out."

"Figured what out? What are you talking about?" She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Glen. "It's Peter Landau."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know. He's not making sense."

"Joana, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here, Peter. What's this all about?"

"I don't want to talk about it over the telephone," he said.

"Why not, for heaven's sake?"

"I just don't. Can you come up here?"

"No way," Joana said firmly. "I just got home, I'm tired, and I'm certainly not going anywhere without knowing what this is all about."

"I'll come to your place then."

"Peter, I'm not in the mood for visitors."

"I'm not a visitor. I have to talk to you."

"Besides, Glen is here."

"I don't care who's there. Damn it, Joana, I'm not putting a move on you. I've found out something. Something important as hell. It's vital that you know about it right away."

There was a jagged edge of hysteria to Peter's voice. Joana had no doubt he was deadly serious.

"All right," she said, "come on over, but don't make it late. I'm really tired."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The phone went dead in Joana's hand. She stared at it a moment before hanging up.

"He insists on coming over here," she said to Glen. "Says he's found out something important that I should know. He sounded a little bit crazy. Can you stay until he gets here?"

"You couldn't drive me away," Glen said.

Joana put on a pot of coffee, and she and Glen sat uneasily together in the living room waiting for Peter Landau.