"At least there's a time limit," Glen said. "The last one has to come by the Eve of St. John. That's Monday. If we get past that, we've won."
Deadline: June 23, Hovde wrote.
"Knowing that, I think it would be wise if Joana is not left alone between now and the deadline," he said.
"Definitely," Glen agreed. "She can stay at my place."
"Maybe you ought to think about getting her away somewhere, out of town."
"I could do that," Glen said. "Drive her up to San Francisco, stay there until after Monday."
"Just a minute," Joana said. The sudden sharpness of her tone made both men look at her quickly. "You two are making plans for me as though I'm not even in the room. I'm not a helpless child, you know. And I'm not some delicate glass figurine that has to be packed in layers of cotton."
"I'm sorry, Joana," Hovde said. "We're just trying to come up with the best way to protect you."
"We know you're not helpless," Glen added. "And you're certainly not made of glass."
"Okay," Joana said more gently. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. But let's look at the suggestions you're making. Don't leave me alone. That's fine, I'm not anxious to be alone right now, but we've got four days. Nobody wants to be watched every second for four days. And how do we know it will make any difference? I wasn't alone Sunday night, and that maniac still broke in here and came after me."
"But we have an idea what we're fighting now," Glen said. "That makes a difference. Sunday we were taken by surprise."
"That's true," Joana conceded. "But leaving town doesn't make sense to me. If something is making it possible for dead people to get up and walk and kill, it could happen just as easily in San Francisco or anywhere else as right here."
"Yes, I see what you mean," Hovde said. "We've got to expand our thinking beyond what we know as the natural world."
"It isn't easy when we don't know all the rules," Glen said.
"There are some things we know about the walkers," Hovde said. "They are not invulnerable. Again, taking the word of the old woman, if only a newly dead person can be turned into one, we won't have to worry about old corpses rising out of the cemetery."
"That's good news," Joana said.
"At least it tells us they have limitations. What else do we know about them?"
"They move easily enough," Joana said. "They're fast and they react quickly."
Dr. Hovde wrote WALKERS in the center of the page and underlined it. Below he wrote: Agility.
"And I can tell you they're strong," Glen said. "Stronger than normal people. The one who broke in here Sunday threw me around like I was stuffed with feathers."
Strength.
"And I can add that they retain the power of speech," Hovde said, "even though the personality dies. The husband of the woman in the car said she talked to him lucidly for several hours after her apparent death. The man Ed Frankovich works for—he was the one here Sunday—also said he spoke."
Speech.
"What about the girl on the beach?" Glen asked.
"I didn't hear her speak," Joana said, "but she was terribly strong. I was lucky to get away from her."
"Have they found her body?" Glen asked.
"Not yet," said Hovde. "The currents are strong off the point where she fell in, and the body could have been carried miles up the shoreline. I've asked a friend at the hospital to call me when they find her."
Joana grew thoughtful. "Warren, you talked to the husband of one of these walkers and the employer of another. What kind of people were they, anyway? I mean when they were alive."
"Ordinary," said Hovde. "That's the only word I can think of to describe them. Yvonne Carlson was an average middle-aged housewife, from all evidence loving to her husband and content with her life. Ed Frankovich was something of a loner, but apparently a quiet, gentle man. There seems to be no connection between what these people were in life and what they became. They retain a few of the surface traits of the living person, but essentially the walkers are machines of destruction that exist entirely apart from the people who occupied the bodies."
"Another thing you can add to the list is that they're hard to kill," Glen said. "Or destroy, or whatever the word should be."
"That is the truth," Joana said with feeling. "I watched you hit that creature over and over again, and it just kept coming."
"That's an important point," said Dr. Hovde. "What does it take to stop the walkers? The woman in the car, for instance."
"She just got out and collapsed on the ground," Joana said. "Nobody laid a hand on her, and I'm sure she couldn't have been hurt in the car. It simply ran into a bush and stalled."
Hovde nodded. "The only marks on the body were from the electrocution the night before. Nothing from that afternoon."
"And the one who was in here," Glen said, "as hard and as often as I hit him, it didn't even slow him down. He was on his feet and still trying to get at Joana until the other people came running up. That's when he finally dropped."
"There was a crowd around the woman too when she collapsed, wasn't there, Joana?"
"Yes. They ran up to where the car came to a stop, and were standing there when she got out."
"Maybe," the doctor said thoughtfully, "when the walkers are surrounded, and because of the sheer odds against them can't finish their task, they just...quit."
"That's quite a jump in logic," Glen said.
"Maybe it is, but it's a possibility to consider. What about the girl on the beach, Joana?"
"It fits. It was not until Glen and the other people from the restaurant got close to us that she went over the edge. I can't swear that's why it happened—she had ripped away a piece of my blouse and lost her balance."
Glen frowned. "Even if this is true, even if the walkers self-destruct when a crowd surrounds them, what good will it do us?"
"The more we know about them, the better prepared we'll be," Joana said.
"To me it's one more reason why you shouldn't be left alone."
"Glen, are you going to start the big-man-must-protect-little-girl business all over again?"
"Damn it, this is no time for a consciousness-raising session."
Dr. Hovde spoke up. "Glen, Joana, we've got to work together now, or all the knowledge we've gained is useless."
"I know," Joana said more quietly. "Believe me, Glen, I appreciate what you've done for me, what you're doing. It's just that I hate to feel like some helpless creature who can do nothing but hide in the corner while the men go off to battle."
"That's not the way it is," Glen said. "You know that."
"Yes, I know it. All the same, it bothers me."
"You'll have plenty of time to hash all this out after Monday," Dr. Hovde said.
"In the meantime," said Glen, "you do agree that it's best to stay with me until this is over?"
"I'll stay with you," Joana said, "and I'll love it. But let's make it here at my house instead of your apartment."
"What difference does it make?"
"If I'm in my own house it will feel less like I'm running away, that's all."
"Fair enough," Glen said. "Starting tonight, I'm your constant companion until this nightmare is over."
"What about your job?"
"No problem. I'll take tomorrow and Monday off. They can get along without me that long."
Joana started to protest, then relaxed and smiled. "All right, Glen. Thanks."
Dr. Hovde ran over the list he had made, reading the notations aloud as he ticked them off.
"It's not a whole lot, is it?" Glen said.
"No, but it's better than nothing. We have some guidelines now, so we're not battling shadows.'' He consulted his watch. "It's time for me to be going. If anything comes up, day or night, you have the phone numbers where you can reach me."
Joana walked with him to the door. "Thank you, Warren, for everything you've done."
"Forget it."
"No, I mean it. You didn't have to get mixed up in this."
"Yes I did," he said. "I was floating along in kind of an isolated, self-pitying void. This ugly business has forced me to take a look at my own life. I've been staying apart and uninvolved from too many things for far too long. No man is an island, right?"
"Right." Joana squeezed the doctor's hand and watched him walk away on the curving path through the bushes toward the street. When she turned back Glen was standing behind her.
He opened his arms to her and Joana stepped eagerly into their embrace. Her body was acutely alive to his. She felt the heat of him as intensely as though they were both naked. He kissed her long and deep, and when they broke apart both were breathlng hard.
"This seems like a crazy time for it," she said, "but I want you to make love to me, Glen. I want it so bad my teeth ache."
He kissed her again. "You're right, it is a crazy time, but I'm damned if I don't want you too. Very, very much."
"Do you suppose danger has some sort of weird aphrodisiac effect?"
"I don't know, but whatever it is, let's not waste it."
A long time later they fell asleep in each other's arms.
Chapter 21
Friday morning it was hot. Joana and Glen awoke in her bed covered only by a sheet, which they quickly threw off. At the window a curtain billowed inward, and a dry, scorching wind blew into the bedroom. The Santa Ana wind. Several times a year, without pattern and without warning, it blew in off the desert and turned Los Angeles into an oven.
Glen groaned and rolled over on his stomach. "Going to be a hot sonofabitch today."
"Unusual for June," Joana said, then giggled at the triteness of their conversation. "What do you
want for breakfast?"
"Surprise me."
Joana kissed him and got out of bed. She pulled on a light lacy robe and went out into the kitchen. She looked through the refrigerator and selected a cantaloupe, which she sliced down the middle. She lay two thick pieces of ham in a frying pan and carefully broke four eggs into a bowl. She heard the bathroom door open and close.
"Over easy?" She called in the direction of the bathroom.
"Terrific," he called back, but his voice lacked enthusiasm.
"Anything wrong?"
"I need a shave."
"Don't worry about it," she told him, "we'll rough it."
The shower hissed, and she went back into the kitchen to get everything ready. In ten minutes Glen padded out wearing a towel around his waist. He rubbed a hand across his chin.
"Seriously, there are some things I should pick up from my place."
"Like what?"
"My razor, fresh underwear, stuff like that."
"I have a razor," Joana told him.
"That sissy little thing? My beard would shatter it."
"Wow, listen to Mister Macho."
"Do you want me to wear your underwear too?"
Joana heard the note of discord in their exchange. Just below the banter was the jagged edge of hostility that so often surfaced when the Santa Ana wind blew. Speaking carefully she said, "Why don't you take a run out to your place after breakfast and pick up what you need?"
"I think I'll do that," he said. "Are you coming along?"
"I don't think so. It will give me a chance to clean things up a little around here. I haven't touched the place in more than a week."
"I don't like leaving you alone."
"It will only be for an hour. Surely I can take care of myself that long."
"If you stay here, promise me you won't open the door for anybody you don't know."
"Are you kidding? After what happened last Sunday night?"
"I mean it, promise me."
"All right, Glen, I promise." Still he looked doubtful.
'"Really, I'm not some fragile, empty-headed little powder puff."
"I know you're not," Glen said. "I just...oh, the hell with it. I'll make it as quick as I can."
They ate breakfast and kidded each other and regained a little of their good humor. Outside, the wind blew and the day grew hotter. When they had stacked the dishes Glen kissed her, giving her an extra rub with his bristly chin, and left for the Marina.
When she was alone in the house Joana felt the heat more than ever. There was no air conditioning in the little house, and her fan was not working. She had promised Glen she would keep the doors closed, and the screened windows provided only a minimum of ventilation. She was restless, her nerves gritty.
It was the wind, she told herself. The effects of the Santa Ana were well known. It blew in out of the east and scraped your nerve ends. Children cried without reason, love affairs ended, people stepped out of high windows, the murder rate jumped, when the Santa Ana wind blew.
Joana started the housecleaning as she had planned, but soon gave it up. It was too hot and she was too edgy for slogging around the house with dustcloth and vacuum. She made herself a glass of iced tea and searched the TV Guide for one of those good old movies that always play in the mornings when nobody is home, or late at night when you're asleep. All that was on today was an old Presley movie, and Joana was in no mood for Presley.
She slumped in a chair, sipped at her iced tea, and tried to read a magazine, but she could not get interested.
The telephone rang. Joana leaped for it eagerly, as though afraid the caller might hang up if she did not answer on the first ting.
"Hello. Is this Joana?" The voice was familiar, but different. It was flat and without timbre.
"Peter?"
"Yes."
"You sound strange."
"An accident. I hurt my throat."
"Where have you been? I've been wondering what happened to you. You said you were coming over Sunday night."
"That's when I hurt my throat. I couldn't come."
"Oh, Peter, so much has happened since I talked to you last, I don't know where to begin telling you about it."
He seemed not to hear. "I have something here that you have to see."
"Where? At your house?"
"Yes. I want you to come here."
"Can't you tell me about it?"
"That's no good. I have to show you."
"All right. Glen will be here in an hour or so. We'll come up then."
"No. That will be too late."
"Peter, are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Yes. I can't talk about it. Please come, Joana."
She hesitated. Glen would not approve of her leaving the house. But Glen did not make the rules for her. People had been going out of their way in the past week to help her. Peter included. It was time she started paying some of her debts. Also, it would be a great relief to get out of the stifling house for a while.
"All right; Peter, I'll come. Is there anything I should bring?"
"No. Just hurry," he said in the odd new voice. Then the line clicked dead.
Joana sat down at the kitchen table and wrote a note to Glen
I've gone to Peter's house. He's in some kind of trouble. Back soon.
Love,
J
She tacked the note to the outside of the door as she left the house.
Before locking the door behind her, Joana looked carefully around the brushy yard that lay between her and the street. This was no time to get careless. Nothing moved in the heat. Even Bandido lay prostrate and panting in the shade of an oleander bush.
Overhead the sky was a relentless blue-white. The heat was a palpable weight on her head and shoulders. On a day like this no one would expect to see dead men walk.
She hurried down the path to the street and got into the Datsun. It was like a furnace, but when she got both front windows lowered and the car moving, that provided some ventilation.
She drove up Laurel Canyon to Peter's street and found it deserted. Sheltered by the hills from the desert wind, the trees there hung limp and dejected in the stagnant heat.
Joana parked the Datsun and got out. She stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking up at Peter's house. It was closed up tight, the bli
nds drawn down on the windows. She.felt a tiny pang of apprehension. The empty, airless street oppressed her.
Then the door of the house opened and Peter stood there looking down at her. He did not come forward, but stayed in the shadows. Nevertheless, Joana recognized that it was Peter. He seemed to have something around his neck. A bandage, she guessed, over the injury he told her about.
"Hi," she called.
Peter said nothing, but beckoned her to him. Joana started up the rickety flight of wooden staffs. Peter vanished back into the house. She continued up onto the porch, then paused at the doorway.
"Peter?"
"In here," his queer, flat voice called to her from somewhere inside.
Joana stepped over the threshold into the dim living room. A blast of stale, sweltering air hit her like a physical blow. Unlike the arid heat outside, the interior of the house was damp and steamy. It felt as though the windows had not been opened for days. Even worse than the soggy heat was the overpowerlng sweet smell of incense. When Joana was here before she had detected a trace of strawberry in the air, but nothing like this. The haze of gray smoke made her gag.
"Peter, where are you? What's the matter here?" She walked across the carpet to the beaded curtain that hung between the living room and the small dining room. Beyond it she could see the kitchen and a short hallway that would lead to the bedrooms and bath. The beads of the curtain had an unpleasant clammy feel.
Something was wrong. Something was most terribly wrong in this house. Under the heavy smell of incense there was another odor. It reminded Joana of the dead rat Bandido had dragged behind the refrigerator and left. It had taken her three days to fred the rotting corpse.
She felt a powerful need to get out of there. Letting the beads rattle back into place, she turned toward the front door. It slammed shut. Peter stood facing her with his back pressed against the panel.
Joana stared at him through the gloom and the layers of smoke from the incense. He wore an open-collared shirt, but there was a necktie knotted around his throat. It was too tight. Much too tight. And his face. Oh, God!
Peter's eyes were dusty and lifeless. The swollen flesh of his face was mottled purple. The tip of his tongue protruded from between cracked lips. His body gave off putrescence in waves.
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