The Walking

by Bentley Little

  "I hate this shit," his father said in the slurred whisper that was now his permanent voice, and the annoyance in his words was so pure that Miles could not help but smile. Whatever else the stroke had done, it had not affected his dad's personality.

  "Merry Christmas," Miles said again.

  "I don't know how merry it is."

  "But it's Christmas, and, look, I've come bearing gifts!" He picked up the first package and placed it on his father's chest, letting him look at it for a moment before picking it up once more and carefully unwrapping it. "What do we have here, huh?" He opened the box, let his father watch. "Boots, Dad. Cowboy boots. You know those ones you saw last summer but were too cheap to buy?"

  Bob said nothing, but Miles saw the glint of a tear in his eye, and he suddenly felt a little choked up himself. He quickly moved on to the next present.

  "Hey, what's this?" He unwrapped the gift. "A Louis L'Amour book!"

  He felt a hand grab his wrist. His father's hand, surprisingly strong.

  He looked over at Bob's face and saw tears rolling freely down his cheeks. 'Thank you," his father whispered.

  Miles suddenly realized that his dad had not expected them to be celebrating Christmas this year. He probably hadn't expected to even be here for Christmas, and Miles understood how much this meant to him.

  He was glad that he'd bought the presents and wished that he'd made an effort to decorate the house. He should have thought more

  about his father's feelings and tried to make this year just like every other. "You're a good son," Bob said, relaxing his grip. "I want you to know that. Just because I don't say it all the time doesn't mean I don't think it."

  The lump in his throat returned, and Miles' eyes were watering with the threat of tears. "Thanks, Dad." He swallowed hard, maintained his smile and picked up another package. "Let's see what we have here."

  There were two more presents to go, far less than they usually had, but a decent number under the circumstances. After Miles cleared the wrapping paper off the covers and scrunched it in the trash, his dad waved him back over.

  "Look under the bed," Bob whispered. "I had Audra buy me something for you."

  This was a complete surprise, and Miles crouched down, felt under the bed, and brought forth a rather large and heavy gift whose careful wrapping betrayed a female hand.

  "Open it," his father said.

  Miles ripped the red and green paper to reveal a boxed turntable.

  "I found it several months ago and had Audrago get it for me. I know you have a lot old records you can't play because your stereo just has a CD. So I thought you might like this."

  It was the best present his father had ever given him, not only because it was something he really wanted and would use but because of the thought put into it and the effort required to get it. His dad's presents usually consisted of items from Sears that he himself wanted, and Miles was impressed that he'd actually been thinking about the turntable for some time, that he'd noticed it and remembered it.

  "Thanks," he said. 'this is great."

  "Merry Christmas, boy." Bob pressed a button, lowering

  the bed, apparently tired already, and Miles decided to let him alone for a while.

  "I'll go heat up the coffee," he said.

  Bob closed his eyes. "That sounds good."

  He was snoring even before Miles left the room.

  That, Miles thought, was one of the most disconcerting aftereffects of the stroke: the abrupt changes, the immediate shift from happy to sad, from wide awake to tired, with no cooling-down period, no time allotted for any gradations in between:

  He walked out to the kitchen.

  Bonnie called around eleven, pretending as though there was nothing wrong. She thanked him for the presents he'd sent, asked perfunctorily how Dad was, then went on to tell him of the morning of gift unwrapping they'd had at her house and the huge turkey dinner she was preparing.

  Gil even came on the line for a second with some generic holiday greetings, and Miles responded in kind. He had never much liked his brother-in-law, but he'd always been able to maintain a polite facade, and he did so now as well. After Gil hung up the other phone, Miles asked his sister if she'd like to talk to Dad, and she felt obliged to say yes. When he went back, checked, and told her that their father was still asleep, though, he could tell she was relieved. He said he'd call back later, when Dad was awake, and the two of them hung up, exchanging inanities.

  A short time later, he heard the whir of the bed motor from the bedroom, and he went back to let his father know that Bonnie had called.

  Bob smiled. "How's our old friend GilT' he whispered. "He can still go from man to wuss in three seconds." Bob laughed. Or tried to. But the laugh became a cough, and the cough got stuck somewhere in his throat and all that came out of his father's grimacing mouth was a hard, harsh wheeze.

  The two of them were still talking about Bonnie and Git when Audra showed up with a great Christmas dinner: microwave plates of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and a plastic sack filled with salad. Miles was genuinely touched, and after he gave the nurse her presents and watched her unwrap them, she heated up the food. He sat in a chair next to the bed, eating, while Audra cut up his father's turkey into small easily digestible pieces and carefully fed them to him.

  As he'd suspected, Audra and his father had not initially gotten along, although in recent days they seemed to have reached a kind of truce. As he'd hoped, that confrontation seemed to have energized his father, who had been making much better progress than expected--particularly in regard to his speech: Twice a week he still went to the hospital for tests and therapy, and while there was no change in his longterm prognosis, the doctor and the therapists admitted that in the short term, he was making excellent progress.

  Miles finished his meal and walked out to the kitchen to put his plate in the sink. When he returned, Audra was just getting up from her chair next to the bed. Her face was red as she strode wordlessly out of the room.

  Miles frowned. "What did you say to her, Dad?"

  He was too far away to hear the answer, so he sat down in the nurse's chair and asked again. "What did you say?"

  "I asked if it was true that in Japan they have vending machines that sell soiled panties," his father whispered. "I heard that they do."

  Miles blinked, stunned, then laughed out loud. It had been a long time since he'd laughed, and he was probably overreacting, investing the comment with more humor than it probably warranted, but it felt good to laugh and he seemed to have no control of it anyway, and he just rode the wave and enjoyed the feeling.

  His father grinned.

  No, the stroke had not changed Bob's personality one bit. Miles grasped his dad's good hand, held it, squeezed. From the kitchen he heard the angry sound of a cupboard slamming.

  He smiled. Taking everything into consideration, it wasn't such a bad Christmas after all.

  L.A. was once again showing its true colors after its traditional New Year's false front, slumping back into smog as though the maintenance of that perfect-blue-sky ruse for even one day had zapped all its energy. The San Gabriel Mountains were entirely hidden behind a wall of white, and even the Hollywood hills were little more than a faint , outline in the haze. As usual, the weatherman on the early morning newscast had said that it was going to be "a beautiful day."

  Miles walked into the break room, where Hal and Tran were comparing holidays. Tran had hosted his wife's massive Catholic family in his tiny little duplex, and the place had gotten so crowded and claustrophobic and Christian that Tran, a lax Buddhist, had spent most of Christmas day smoking in the backyard, trying to avoid his in-laws.

  Hal and his wife spent the day together in their Sherman Oaks home, their son and his current girlfriend stopping by later for an uneventful visit. It was Christmas Eve day that Hal's usual series of misadventures had occurred, and Miles and Tran listened and laughed as the detective hilariously recounted how he had driven all over creatio
n, looking for the jewelry box his wife wanted, before finally finding one at an independent discount house that he'd investigated last year for fencing stolen property. He'd bought it, intending to find another once the holidays were over and switch the two without his wife know lO3 thing; turning in the stolen one to the policnd telling them where he'd purchased it.

  Tran nodded at how was your Christmas,

  Miles?" if

  As well as could be expected under the circumstances."

  Both Tran and Hal nodded solemnly, understandingly, neither willing to chance a follow-up comment.

  Miles felt awkward, and he found himself suddenly inventing a deadline that wasn't there, pretending that he needed to get back to his desk.

  He sat down, shuffled through his papers, happy to have something to do, feeling far too comfortable being alone at his desk than he knew he should be.

  Although Marina and her husband had gone back to Arizona, and her father refused to speak with him, Miles was still on the case, and for that he was grateful. He sorted through the files until he found theirs, withdrawing the list Liam had made up. He'd been systematically trying to locate all of the men on the list, although so far he'd found none. He'd been hoping to work with the police on this, utilize some of their resources, but to his surprise and consternation, the detective assigned to Liam's case was supremely uninterested. Miles had a few contacts downtown, among the police brass--and the firm itself had many more--and he planned to speak-to them and get the case transferred to another detective.

  He spent the morning scanning phone directories and doing Internet searches. He was rewarded just after noon with the address and phone number of Hubert E Lars, now living in Palm Springs. When he attempted to call Hubert, however, a recording informed him: "This number is no longer in service, Please check the number and dial again." Miles called one more time, just to make sure he hadn't

  accidentally punched in a wrong digit, but when the same recording came on the line, he hung up, feeling troubled. The image in his mind was of Hubert P. Lars lying dead on the floor of a long, low desert ranch house. He was half tempted to speed down to Palm Springs and check, but it was two hours away, and he knew his time would be much better spent trying to find addresses and phone numbers for the rest of the people on Liam's list.

  He stayed late, and the sun was a smog-shrouded orange glow at the edge of the horizon where he finally pulled into his driveway. Miles grabbed the Taco Bell sack from the seat next to him, got out of the car and used his key to unlock the front door. He was greeted by darkness. And silence. No lights were on in the house, and he did not hear the everpresent sound of the television.

  "Audra?" he called tentatively. "You here? Audra?"

  There was no answer.

  He suddenly realized why the house was silent.

  His father had died. "Dad!" He dropped the sack on the coffee table and ran through the living room, his heart pounding so hard that it felt as though it was going to burst through his rib cage.

  He dashed into the hall. The hall tree had been shoved in front of the door to his father's room as if to barricade it, and a love seat and chair from the back bedroom had been placed next to the hall tree to reinforce the barricade. It made no sense, but he didn't stop and try to analyze it or figure out why it had been done.

  From inside the room he heard the sound of rapid footsteps that rapped against the hardwood floor. They seemed unnaturally loud in the silent house.

  There was no answering reply, only the footsteps. Boot heels on wood.

  Miles pushed the love seat aside, pulled the chair and hall tree away from the door. He saw a paper towel, a bottle and syringe lying between the legs of the hall tree. His father's medication, abandoned.

  "Dad!" He pushed open the door.

  His father was naked, wearing only cowboy boots, and walking in a circle around the periphery of the room. The nightstand was knocked over, as was a chair. Both the 'bed and the dresser had been shoved away from their usual positions against the wall and were skewed at odd angles against bunched-up sections of throw rug, creating a path next to the wall through which his father could walk. Miles saw bloody bruises on his father's thigh and midsection where he had obviously smacked against the bed and dresser, moving them not intentionally but through sheer stubborn repetition.

  "Dad!" he called again.

  But he did not rush forward. Something about the scene kept him back.

  His father's eyes were closed, he saw. The old man's skin was bluish and pasty.

  Bob walked between the dresser and the wall, toward him, past him. This close, Miles could see the utter lack of expression on his dad's face, the complete absence of any sign of life or personality.

  His father was dead.

  He knew it, felt it, understood it, but Bob continued walking, continued on his circular track around the edge of the room. Miles did not know what was happening or why or what to do. This was like something out of The Twilight Zone, and he stood there, stunned. He knew he should be scared, but for some reason he wasn't, and when his father came around again, Miles grabbed him around the chest, pinning the old man's arms to his sides. His father's skin felt cold and spongy, rubbery. Miles held his dad tightly, trying to keep him in place, but his father

  was stronger in death than he had ever been in life, and with only a moment's delay, he broke through his son's restraint and continued his nonstop stride around the periphery of the room.

  "Stop!" Miles called, but Bob gave no indication that he had heard.

  The dead can't hear, Miles thought.

  He hurried out of the room and back down the hall. Audra had to have reported what was happening, an ambulance was probably on its way right now, but he dialed 9-1-1 anyway and was transferred instantly from an emergency operator to a police dispatcher.

  He started talking immediately, before the dispatcher had said a word:

  "My name's Miles Huerdeen. I'm at 1264 Monterey Street, Los Angeles, and my dad is dead. I just came home and found him. He had a stroke and was incapacitated, but now he's walking around the bedroom, and I need someone to come over and take care of him." He was aware of how ridiculous he sounded, and he knew as soon as he said it that he should have kept that part quiet, let the paramedics find out for themselves when they arrived, but he was obviously more freaked than he'd thought, because he had a need to get the information out, he wanted to explain what was really going on.

  He wanted someone else to know.

  Besides, the police needed to decide how to handle his father, whether to take him to a hospital or the morgue.

  The dispatcher was confused. "Your father had a stroke?

  "No, he died!"

  "I thought you said he was walking."

  "He is!"

  The voice took on a stiff authoritarian formality. "Mr. Huerdeen--"

  "He's dead, I told you! And he's still walking around the room!"

  "Mr. Huerdeen, I suggest you take a walk. We don't have time for these games. Thank you

  "This isn't a game, goddammit!"

  "Then, I suggest you take advantage of our referral service to find the mental health clinic nearest your home. I will connect you." There was an abrupt click, and then a recorded voice came on the line, informing him that if he was thinking about suicide, he should press the number one. If he was suffering from spousal abuse... He hung up the phone, chastising himself for not taking the dispatcher's name. He could not hear it from here, but in his mind he heard the sound of boot heels on wood, and for the first time the creepiness of it all hit home. Father or not, he was alone in the house with a dead mana zombie

  --and his first priority was to find someone to help him do something about it. He thought for a moment, then reached for his personal phone book. He dialed his friend Ralph Barger, who worked at the county coroner's office.. Ralph would know how to handle this.

  Luckily for him, Ralph was in, and Miles explained the situation as calmly and rationally as he co
uld. His friend did not interrupt and did not treat him as though he were crazy or drunk but took him seriously and wrote down the address and promised to be there with a wagon and a couple of assistants within the half hour.

  After hanging up, Miles called Graham. He might need a lawyer on this.

  He had no idea what was happening here, but it was doubtlessly unprecedented, and that always meant tangling with the law. The attorney, for once, did not have to be paged but actually answered his phone,

  and as soon as Miles explained the situation, he promised to be right over.

  "You're not pulling my leg, are you? This is on the level?"

  "On the level."

  "Holy shit. I have to see this for myself."

  "Then, get your ass over here."

  Miles considered calling Hal, getting some of the other detectives in on this, but decided against it. At let for now.

  He hung up the phone, looked around the darkened house. Where was Audra? he wondered. Had she just run off?

  Or had his father killed her?

  It was clear by now that she had not called the police or any authorities if she had, they had treated her information the same way they had treated his. Had she simply abandoned her post and rushed home or to the hospice agency? Or had something happened to her, and was her body still in the house? She must have been the one who had barricaded his father's door, so he most likely hadn't been able to do anything to her, but the truth was that Miles was way out of his depth here. For all he knew, his father was possessed by some malevolent spirit or demon that had also done away with the nurse.

  He needed to search the house.

  He was a lot more leery about leaving the living room than he had been before. Night had fallen, and though. he'd turned on a few of the lights, most of the house was still in darkness. Logically, he knew that his father had died when it was still light outside. Audra had probably taken off sometime this afternoon.