The Walking (3 page)

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 about 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."

"Guess I didn't read that one," Miles admitted.

Hal shook his head. "Great. I have about a gazillion calls to make."

"Better break out those quarters," the receptionist said sweetly "I can't tie up my line." 'Thanks." Hal lumbered off toward his cubicle.

Naomi picked up the handset. "Oh," she said to Miles, almost as an afterthought. "You have a client. She's been waiting about ten minutes. Said Phillip Emmons recommended you."

Miles nodded in thanks as she pressed a button on the phone and began talking once again. He strode down the wide central aisle toward his workstation. Phillip Emmons.

Old Phil could always be counted on to throw some work his way. It had been awhile since he'd seen his friend, and he promised himself that he'd give Phil a call later in the week and the two of them would get together.

The woman waiting in the client's chair of his cubicle sat perfectly still, staring out the windows of the office at the Hollywood hills. A pretty brunette; wearing a tight blouse with no bra and a short trendy skirt, she saw him coming and stood at his approach, extending a hand.

Raymond Chandler time.

"My name's Marina Lewis." He shook her hand. "Miles Huerdeen." The first thing he noticed was a wedding ring, and his hopes, faint as they were, faded. He smiled, motioned for her to sit. "What can

I do for you, Ms. Lewis?"

"Call me Marina."

"Marina." '

She waited for him to Settle in behind his desk, then took a deep breath. "Phillip Emmons recommended you. I mentioned to him that I was looking for someone that I needed some help..."

"What's the problem?" Miles said gently.

She cleared her throat. "My father is being stalked, but the police refuse to do anything about it."

Miles nodded calmly, professionally, but inside he was

revved up. Finally a real case. In pulp fiction terms: a gorgeous dame and a targeted old man. What more could he ask for? "Who's after your father?" Miles asked.

"We don't know. That's what we want you to find out." "How do you know he's being stalked?"

"We weren't, at first. I mean, there were little clues. He'd come home and the back door would be unlocked, though he was sure that he had locked it. Stuff like that. Things that could have been imagination or coincidence. But last week, right before we came out here to visit him, he got a phone call from a woman who said he was marked for death. She described the inside of his house perfectly, like she'd been there, and said she was going to kill him in his sleep.

And then, a few days later, she called again and started saying weird stuff about things that no one would know but people in our family.

Then, two days ago, he was nearly run over by. a black car with blacked-out windows that swerved to hit him as he was crossing the street. He only escaped by leaping onto the sidewalk and jumping into the doorway of a jewelry store."

"You told this to the police? She nodded. What did they say?"

She opened her small handbag, drew out a card, and passed it across the desk to him. "I talked to this guy, Detective Madder, and he said there was nothing they could do until something more concrete occurred.

He wrote down the information about the phone call, took a description of the car, and then basically told us that it was going in a file and wasn't going to be acted on. Then he gave me this card and told me to keep him informed. My father didn't even want to go to the police, I convinced him to, and after that he became adamant about handling this by himself. So I'm here on my own. He doesn't know anything about this."

"We can't provide protection," Miles said. "We're an investigative firm, not a security company--"

"I know," she interrupted. "I just want you to find out who's doing this and why. After that we'll either go to the police with what we have or... or figure out something else."

Find out who's doing this and why.

As juvenile and stupid as it was, he felt energized. He was in his own movie now, and this made up for all those boring bureaucratic cases he was ordinarily forced to handle. He took out a pen and notebook.

"Your father lives where?"

"Santa Monica. 211 Eighth Street."

"And you and your husband?"

"Arizona. We're only out here for a few weeks. My husband's a writer, and he's meeting with some movie people about optioning his book."

"So how much longer will you be staying in California?" "Probably another week or so." She paused. "Unless something else happens. I'm a teacher and I'm supposed to be back at work on January second, but if my dad's in danger... "We'll try to clean this up quickly." Miles smiled at her and she smiled back. "Your husband's a writer, huh? I assume that's how you met Phil Emmons."

Her face brightened. "Yes! Phillip's been a godsend. Gordon met him at a horror convention in Phoenix last year, and he's the one who helped him find a movie agent. We're only out here today because of Phillip."