The Walking

by Bentley Little

  He'd talked to her father Liam over the phone, and the old man had been a cipher. He realized Marina was the one pushing the investigation, that her father didn't want to talk about the subject or face it, and Miles wondered why. He had the feeling that the old man knew more than he was telling, and Miles had decided to interview some of Liam's friends to find out whether he'd revealed anything to them.

  He got into the car and quickly sorted through the top folder on his pile. The Gonzalez divorce.

  It was going to be a long day.

  After work, he went to the hospital.

  His father's condition had changed little since the first day, and while his dad didn't seem in imminent danger of dying, it was clear that he was not going to recover to the extent that Miles had initially hoped.

  As always, the corridor leading to the CCU was crowded with doctors and nurses and interns, but he'd been here so often over the past few days that no one stopped him and several people actually smiled and nodded.

  He walked up to his father's open door, took a deep breath to fortify himself, and peeked inside. If his father was asleep, he'd wait in the hallway. He didn't want to disturb him. But Bob was wide awake and staring at the television mounted on the wall. Miles walked into the room. The sound of the monitoring equipment hooked up to his father was louder than the muted noise of the TV. He looked up. Oprah was on. His dad hated Oprah. Miles searched around until he found the remote control, and changed the channel to the local news program Bob ordinarily watched.

  He sat down on the chair next to his father's bed. He forced himself to smile. "Hey, Dad, how's it going?"

  Bob's hand reached out and grabbed his own with a surprisingly strong grip. He tried to talk. He could speak only in a whisper and only without moving his lips, the words emerging from remembered rhythms of breath. Miles leaned closer to his father, placing his ear next to the old man's mouth. "What is it?"

  "Eeeeeee... Eeeeear."

  "Ear?" .

  "Eeeeeee... Eeeeear."

  E Ear? Miles frowned. It didn't make any sense. "Eeeeeee...

  Eeeeear."

  He patted his father's shoulder. "It's okay, Dad." He felt bone beneath the skin beneath the covers. It was a disconcerting sensation, made even more so by the in comprehensibility of Bob's speech.

  "Eeeeeee... Eeeeear," his father repeated.

  Miles did not know what to say, and he kept patting his father's bony shoulder and saying, "It's all right, Dad. It's all right." He realized that since Bob probably wasn't going to die from this stroke, he would be coming home at some point. Miles felt horribly out of his depth, unable to deal with the responsibilities that would entail. The only reason he was coping even now was because the hospital was taking care of his dad's physical needs, monitoring him. He had no idea how he would go about taking care of his father on his own.

  It would be one thing if Bonnie were here to help him, but his sister had not even bothered to come down and see their dad. That was to be expected, but it still pissed him off. She'd called, of course, but only once, and it hadn't seemed to occur to her that perhaps her father would like to see her or that perhaps Miles himself would like a little moral support. 20As always, she was thinking only of herself, of what was convenient for her. I-uh?" his father whispered, i

  Miles

  He squeezed Bob's hand. "I'm here, Dad."

  His father nodded, almost smiled, and his head sank back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes. Miles found himself thinking of Claire.

  His ex-wife and his father had always gotten along great, and he considered calling her. She'd probably want to know what was happening. But he knew he would not be able to bring himself to do it.

  Even after all this time the wounds were still raw, and the only reason he had even thought of phoning Claire was because of some harebrained idea in the back of his mind that this would lead to some sort of reconciliation, that this would bring her back and that somehow they'd get together again and live happily ever after. It wasn't for his father's sake that he had considered calling her, it was for his own, and that was why he could not contact her.

  That and the fact that he didn't want to discover how she was incredibly happy with her new life and involved with a guy she loved more than anything in the world.

  "I- uh".

  "Yeah, Dad."

  Miles started talking. He gave his father a rundown on his day, keeping out the gruesome details of the morning.

  Carrying on a one-way conversation was awkward, and he was not good at it, but his father's firm squeeze told him that the effort was appreciated, and he racked his brain try thing to think of things to keep on talking about. Eventually, he started making things up, and around that time Bob finally drifted off to sleep. Miles slipped carefully out of his chair and made his way across the hall to the monitoring station. "Is Dr. Yee here?" he asked a nurse.

  "He's coming back for his rounds later, but I think he's out right now. Do you want me to page him?"

  Miles shook his head. "That's okay. I'll wait and catch him when he comes back."

  An intern standing behind the nurse looked up. "Maybe I can help you."

  "I just have a question about my father I'd like to ask Dr. Yee."

  "Which room is your father in?"

  "Twelve."

  "Oh, yes. Mr. Huerdeen. I'm familiar with the case. What would you like to know?"

  "I was just wondering if he's going to be going home. I mean eventually, not right away."

  "He'll probably be going home next week. He doesn't require life support or continued treatment, and to be honest, there's not a lot we can do for him at this point. He'll be prescribed anticoagulant medication, and we'll probably enroll him in our stroke-recovery program, which involves informational classes for the family as well as physical therapy for the patient. As you know, your father's right side has been affected by his stroke, and the rehab will be concentrating on retraining his mind and body to adapt to their post-stroke condition.

  "But the fact is, he'll need full-time care. He'll need a live-in nurse, someone with professional training. I don't know what type of insurance your father has--"

  Miles cut him off. 'that's not a problem."

  "Are you sure? I hope so, but I'd suggest you look into the details of your father's plan. A lot of these senior health plans let the HMOs determine the course of treatment rather than the patient's doctor, which means that they have standardized solutions to every problem and a set amount they'll pay for each illness or disability. I'm not saying that's what

  your father has, but if it is, you're going to be facing some major, major medical bills."

  Miles drove home feeling depressed. He wasn't the happiest guy on the planet even under the best of circumstances, but now he felt as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His life seemed oppressive, stifling, and instead of going straight home, he drove aimlessly toward the Hollywood hills, Cruising over the narrow winding canyon streets, concentrating on the road, trying not to think about his father, his job, or anything remotely related to his life.

  Luckily, his father's insurance covered everything. Bob had worked in the aerospace industry during the boom years and had retired when pension benefits were at their peak, so he wasn't locked into an HMO and could pick his own doctor. As Miles sorted through the documents and policy statements, he learned that not only would the insurance company pay a hundred percent of the hospital bill, it would also cover ninety percent of the rehab costs.

  He wished his own insurance coverage was even half this good, and he longed for those bygone days when employers actually took care of their employees rather than giving them the shaft. The shaft. Did anyone even use that phrase anymore?

  He sighed. Another sign of encroaching old age.

  It was Saturday, and after visiting with his dad, Miles went down, policies in hand, to talk to the hospital's "patient representative."

  The representative, Ted, bore more than a slight resemb
lance to Claire, and like his ex-wife she seemed at once sympathetic and capable. She efficiently sorted through the documents he gave her, made a few phone calls, and within an hour everything was set.

  'l'hey'll be sending a nurse--or a 'caregiver," as I think they prefer to be called---out to your house this afternoon

  at two. As I'm sure you heard from that last phone call, the hospital no longer provides in-home care to our patients directly. We've contracted with another company for that service. Everything is coordinated through here, however, so if you have any problems, come and see me and we'll get them straightened out."

  Miles nodded.

  'The caregiver will be dropping by today just to intro duce herself, to explain a little bit about what she does and when she'll be coming over permanently."

  "She won't be living with us, will she?"

  'That can be arranged if it becomes necessary, but at this time Dr.

  Yee does not think your father requires round-the clock professional care. So no. She'll probably come in the morning, stay the day, and you'll be responsible for watch thing your father at night, which shouldn't be too hard since he'll be sleeping then. But the caregiver will explain more about that to you this afternoon. Mostly, she'll be coming by to see the layout of your house, determine if there needs to be any modifications in your father's bed or other furniture. Things like that." She smiled. "As I said, if there are any problems, just give me a call."

  Miles left the hospital shortly after speaking with Dr. Yee on his afternoon rounds and hurried home. A pretty, youngish red-haired woman who looked like a country music singer was already waiting for him, leaning against the hood of her

  Camry, a brown briefcase at her feet. He parked on the street, got out of the car, and walked toward her. "Hello," he said.

  "I'm Miles Huerdeen."

  "My name's Audra? Audra Williams? I'm the home health nurse assigned to your father?"

  She had a pronounced Southern accent that made statements sound like questions, and though he ordinarily had a prejudice against such a manner of talking--its speakers al ways sounded stupid to him--Audra exuded an air of confidence and competence, and as she began explaining what she did and how she would be assisting his father, he stopped even noticing her accent.

  The two of them walked through the house, Audra jotting down notes in a leather-bound organizer. In Bob's room, she stated that she would be ordering a new bed for him, an adjustable hospital bed, and then she added on her list a special mattress and a meal tray. Miles didn't know if any of these accessories were covered by insurance, but he nodded in agreement.

  They finished up in the living room, where she gave him a stack of pamphlets as well as a video on home health care. He led her to the door and was about to say good-bye when

  Audra turned toward him. "Mr. Huerdeen?"

  "Yes ?"

  "I just want you to know that I'm a Christian? I'd like to get that straight from the beginning? I'm a God-fearing woman? I am here to provide a service to your family in this, your hour of need, but I am born-again, and I think you should know that up front?"

  : That came out of nowhere.

  She looked at him expectantly, and Miles maintained the strained smile on his face.

  A God-fearing woman.

  Why would a woman who defined herself as Cbxistian fear God? Shouldn't she love God? He never had been able to understand the bizarre system of interlocking, overlapping rewards, promises, and prohibitions that born-again Christians used to guide their lives.

  He considered replacing Audra, asking for someone else. That was why she'd warned him, and it was a considerate thing to do. Especially in this situation. A born-againer, he knew, would really annoy the hell out of his dad. Of course, he and his dad would annoy the hell out of anyone even remotely religious, and Miles thought that maybe his father

  would like that. It might boost his spirits to be involved in a little bloodless battle now and then.

  He smiled at the nurse. "Audra?" he said. "I'm glad you'll be here.

  The next day was the second Sunday of the month. Miles had learned from Marina Lewis that although her father wasn't going to be there this weekend, he ordinarily sold Amberolas at the Rose Bowl's monthly flea market. He'd worked for forty years as a lathe operator in a machine shop, but after retirement, looking for something to do with his time and in need of a few extra bucks, he'd started buying and restoring antique phonographs. Marina said that most of his friends these days were fellow antique sellers.

  She had no specific names to give him, and once again her father was being peculiarly uncooperative, so Miles' barebones plan was to go to the swap meet and ask around until he found someone who knew Liam Connor.

  He stopped by the hospital first to see his dad, stayed until he'd had a chance to talk to Dr. Yee, and then headed up the side streets toward Pasadena, avoiding the freeways : that were being earthquake retrofitted.

  Wind overnight had blown away most of the smog, and the sky above the Rose Bowl was actually blue. Miles paid an outrageous six dollars to park in a vacant lot next to the Bowl, and when he got out of the climate-controlled car, he found that the outside air was cool and reasonably seasonal.

  He walked through the gates toward the gigantic jumble . | of vendors, customers, and browsers that ringed the stadium. He felt like a real detective today, as though he was actually doing some investigating, and that, combined with the clean cool air, gave him a rare feeling of well-being.

  He pushed through a wall of morns with strollers and

  stopped in front of the first table. "Excuse me," he asked the hunched old man standing behind a display of glass milk ........ bottles. "Do you know Liam Connor?"

  The old man looked at him, through him, then tttmed away, not answering.

  Miles resisted the temptation to knock one of the milk bottles to the ground and instead looked around the collection of dealers to see if there were any sellers of antique phonographs in this area. He figured vendors were probably grouped by category. Unfortunately, this section seemed to be mostly knickknacks, bottles and china, and he made his way through the crowd, glancing around as he headed down the east side of the Rose Bowl.

  The placement of sellers followed no logical order, he discovered almost instantly. It was pure luck that the vendors near the entrance had exhibited similar wares, because as he moved deeper into the flea market, he saw furniture next to jewelry, vintage clothing next to farm implements. And the place was massive. It would probably take all day to fred someone who knew Marina's father.

  Still, he thought his idea of finding another seller of phonographs was a good one, and he walked up and down the aisles, looking for Victrolas or Amberolas or other types of old record players.

  He passed a lot of tables covered with antique toys--apparently a hot trend among current collectors--and several of the so-called and ques were things he'd had as a child. He saw his old James Bond lunch pail selling for fifty dollars, his Hot Wheel Supercharger for thirty-five.

  He wandered past boxes of Life magazines, stacks of old Beatle albums.

  Next to an Aurora Wolfman model he saw a Fred Flintstone Pez dispenser.

  One of the small candies was pushed halfway out, and Fred's head was tilted slightly back, making it look as though his throat had been slit.

  Miles looked away. Montgomery Jones' death the other

  day had affected him more than he'd thought. Now he was even ascribing malevolent meaning to Pcz dispensers.

  Which reminded him that he should call Graham. He hadn't talked to the lawyer since leaving the crime scene, but the murder had somehow been kept out of the papers and off the TV news, and Miles wanted to know if that was Graham's doing or if Thompson had pulled some strings. He also wanted to know if the lawyer wanted him to pursue his investigation of the company or if everything was now in the hands of the police.

  Miles kept walking. Ahead was a blanket spread on the ground atop which were old Victrola speaker hor
ns. A heavily bearded, grossly overweight man with a long, greasy ponytail sat in a metal folding chair behind the blanket, polishing what looked like a miniature speaker horn.

  "Excuse me," Miles said. The man looked up. "Do you know Liam Connor?"

  "Liam? Sure. You want his card?"

  "No, I want to ask you a few questions about him."

  The man's expression shut down. What had been willing helpfulness became blank neutrality. "Sorry. Can't help you."

  "I'm not a cop," Miles quickly explained. "I'm a private investigator.

  I've been hired by Mr. Connor's daughter to investigate a possible stalker. Mr. Connor has apparently been followed and harassed recently, and his daughter is worded. I was wondering if he'd talked to you about any of this or if he'd mentioned any enemies that he might have."

  "Liam?" The man let out a loud, gruffly obnoxious laugh that caused most of the browsers nearby to look in his direction. "Liam doesn't have an enemy in this world!"

  Miles smiled thinly. "Apparently he does."

  The laughter died. "Seriously? Someone's stalking him?" "We think so."

  "Why? To... kill him?"

  "That's what I'm trying to find out. If you could just tell me whether he's talked to you about--"

  "Wait a minute. Why are you asking me what he talked about? Why don't you ask him?" The man looked at Miles suspiciously. "You're investigating him, aren't you?" "No, I assure you, his daughter hired me--"

  "His daughter's probably after his money or something." The man shook his head. "Nope. If Liam ain't talking, I ain't talking." He picked up the rag he'd placed on his lap and started polishing the small horn he'd been working on.

  Miles knew better than to press the man, and he peeled off a card, dropped it on the blanket. 'ais is legit. Call Mr. Connor and ask him if you want. And if you think of some thing, give me a call."

  The man just looked at him. He didn't reach down to pick up Miles' card, but he didn't tear it up either. Miles hoped that the man would keep it and change his mind.