The Walking (20 page)

His father had dropped off the fac: 5of the earth.

It was impossible, but it seemed to be the case, and as the days passed and neither the police nor the agency could find any trace of the body, Miles began wondering if he would ever learn of his father's ultimate fate.

He kept expecting to be visited by men from some top secret government agency, well-dressed individuals wearing business suits and sunglasses and small earphone transmitters to be told that all information concerning his father was classified and that he was forbidden to continue his search on the grounds that it was a threat to national security. But real life was not the same as the movies, not even here in Southern California. No mysterious agents came forward to inform him that his father was part of some secret experiment, and he was left with just the blind, dumb search for his dad's walking corpse.

Maybe he would never know. Maybe the body would never turn up, there would never be a funeral, and he would go to his own grave never finding out whether his dad had finally succumbed to a proper death or was still some sort of zombie.

The only thing good to come out of all this was Claire. He still did not know where they stood, but she came over after work each day, bringing dinner, and they ate together talked and enjoyed each other's company. He was happy to be with her, it was almost like having her back,

and he didn't want to jinx it by discussing the status of their relationship.

He had talked to her about Bob, had told her everything, and with the type of trust that is only born of intimacy, she completely believed his account of events. She was concerned and worried by what had happened, but she did not appear to be scared, and for that he was thankful. He was frightened enough for both of them, and it was nice to have a shoulder he could lean on.

Together, they looked over the magic paraphernalia from the safety deposit box, and Claire theorized that Bob had in his younger days crossed swords with some sort of satanic cult or coven of witches, and that he'd attempted to use this stuff to protect himself against them.

"If that's the case," Miles said, "it looks like he failed.

They won out in the end.

Maybe," Claire admitted. Both of them refused to believe that Bob himself had been involved in the black arts, that he had in any way brought this upon himself. They knew him too well. He-was not that kind of person. He had been a good and kind man, a loving father, and to implicate him in all this would have meant that his whole life had been a lie, that he had deceived everyone into thinking he was someone he was not, and neither of them could believe that that was the case.

Miles found it a little disconcerting, the ease with which Claire accepted all of this. Without any proof she believed a man could continue to walk after death. He asked her if she had ever encountered anything supernatural before. The way things had been going lately, he would not have been surprised to discover that all along she'd been part of some underground group of conjure wives. But to his relief she said that no, this was her first encounter with the supernatural, and she hoped to God that it was her last.

As the days passed and there was still no sign of his

father's body, as his morning and evening calls to the police and the coroner's office became less and less urgent, more and more resigned, Miles kept expecting Claire to cut him off, to determine that he was stable enough to handle this situation on his own, and to resume her normal life, to tell him that it was nice seeing him again, but... That didn't happen.

If anything, they became even closer as the pressure, inevitably, lessened.

They were kissing each other good-bye, hugging their hellos, snuggling together on the couch when they watched TV, all actions that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. He knew how he wanted to interpret them, but that was precisely the way he was afraid to interpret them, and he chose to pretend that they were just friends, grown-ups who behaved in a civilized adult manner without ascribing emotional significance to every meaningless touch.

Still, she was once again a part of his life, and they now had a relationship where before there was none.

On Wednesday, they met at a restaurant after work. Matta's. The Mexican restaurant where they'd gone on their first date and many dates after and that had eventually become "theirs." He had not chosen it for that reason. He had merely wanted to take her out as a change of pace, to thank her for cooking him dinner so often over the past few weeks. He decided on Matta's because it was close, cheap, and he knew that they both liked the food. The sentimental symbolism of the restaurant did not occur to him until she showed up and they were led to one of the small back booths, just like the old days. The knowledge put something of a damper on the meal, inhibiting conversation, making them both uncomfortable, and they ate quickly, in a hurry to leave.

After, it was still early, and Claire came back home with him. They settled in front of the television to watch the news. Their earlier awkwardness was gone, and once again

they were close and comfortable with each other, commenting on the news of the day, making fun of the superficial anchors on the entertainment program that followed.

Miles went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine. He handed one to Claire, and she sipped it carefully, smiling in thanks.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Miles picked up the remote control and flipped through channels until he found something he wanted to watch, an old Humphrey Bogart movie.

"You know," Claire said, "one of my clients should become one of your clients."

"Yeah?" he looked over at her, and he could not help smiling. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the give and-take between them, these casual discussions of their work and their jobs that somehow managed to be more intimate and more interesting than any conversation he'd had with any other woman. Claire was a clinical social worker, and when they'd lived together, she'd often tell him about the drug-addicted single mothers she'd be trying to steer straight in order to reclaim child custody, or the develop mentally disabled she had to teach to shop for food and necessities so they could live on their own.

He'd always enjoyed their talk of work, it had always made him feel close to her, and it was only after their breakup, during the bitter divorce proceedings, that he realized she considered this part of his pattern of avoidance. She'd wanted to focus on their lives together, not their lives apart. To her, their conversations were more proof, as if proof was needed, of how far they had drifted apart. But to him it meant just the opposite, and now as she told him about her client and talked of her work, he felt a pleasant sensation of deja vu, and he allowed himself to speculate that perhaps they would get back together again

Maybe he had picked Matta's for some reason other than mere convenience.

Claire finished her wine, put the glass down on the coffee table. "He's been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, a diagnosis he accepts, but he's still convinced that he's being stalked, even though he has no objective proof to back him up. He says he's been getting weird phone calls, he's been chased on the street, cars have attempted to run him down. We've tried to tell him that no one is stalking him, that what he sees as a series of interconnected events are, if they even occurred, random coincidences, but it seems like the only thing that would put his mind at rest would be to have an actual detective investigate whether someone's after him."

Miles' heart had started to pound halfway through her story. "What's his name?

Why?

Hold on a minute." He got up, rushed out of the room to the den, and returned with a copy of Liam's list. "Is his name on here?"

Claire scanned the paper, read to the bottom, shook her head. "No.

Why? What's this about?" "Are you sure?" Of course I'm sure."

He took the paper from her. "My current client is being stalked.

Phones, cars, everything you described. He made up this list, and one by one the people on it are being picked off, killed."

'fflaen, this is some kind of hit list."

"Some kind. But not all of the people have been murdered. Some have died of natural causes. And some have died in ways that well, that can't really be explained."

"And you thought my client might be connected to this?" 'fflae story's similar." "Yeah," she admitted. "It is."

"So I thought this might be tied in."

She nodded. "I understand why you might think that, specially after what happened to Bob, but you have to be careful not to start reading import into everything. Pretty soon you'll be seeing patterns in unrelated events, making connections where there are none. Don't let your father's situation color everything." this is something similar to the case I'm working on. That's all. It has nothing to do with my dad."

"Doesn't it?"

He turned away, folded the paper. "No. And I suggest you keep an eye on this guy. My list is not foolproof. Just because your client is not on the list doesn't mean that he's not a target. Don't automatically discount his fears."

"I won't," she said.

They were silent for a moment. "So what about Bob?" she asked.

"Wasn't that a movie?"

"I'm talking to you seriously."

Miles took a deep breath. "What about him?"

"Do you think--?"

"I don't know what to think."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He shrugged. "What can I do? Wait until his body turns up, I suppose."

"Do you think it will?"

"It has to sometime.

But he didn't sound convincing even to himself, and he was glad when Claire dropped the subject and put her arm around him and they settled back into the couch to watch the movie.

Finally.

One of the other men on Liam's list lived in the Los Angeles area, and with the help of Hal, who had a good memory as well as a recurring client who ran an adult bookstore, Miles found the work address of one Owen Brodsky.

Brodsky was a porno distributor, one of the third-tier middlemen who sold videos through ads in raunchy magazines and smutty newspapers. His office headquarters was a two-room rental in one of the nearly condemned Hollywood buildings that was sinking thanks to the subway being dug under the street below. Subway construction was the bane of Hollywood's tourist office but a boon to small business owners like Brodsky, who could now afford rent in places that before would have been priced far beyond their means. A Hollywood zip code was all-important, and Miles understood why Brodsky would covet a Hollywood location, particularly in his business.

Downstairs, Brodsky's building housed a movie-themed bookstore, a closed tattoo parlor, and an open-fronted shop carrying gaudy Mexican merchandise. The upper offices were reached by a narrow stairwell located behind a door sandwiched between the bookstore and the tattoo parlor, and Miles climbed up the steps, walking down the hallway at the top until he found the closed door with the cheap plaque reading:

Brodsky Productions. He knocked, heard no answer, then tried the knob.

It was unlocked, and he opened the door, stepping into the office.

The room was crowded and messy and looked more like an abandoned storage locker that had been ransacked than someone's office. A grossly overweight man with a pile of Der Wienerschnitzel wrappers on the cluttered desk in front of him looked up when Miles walked in but did not stop sorting through what looked like a sheaf of order forms in his hands. Miles glanced around, saw stacks of videocassettes and their extremely graphic covers piled on tables, cabinets, and the floor. A doorway leading into another of rice revealed boxes and cartons and even bigger piles of

stacked tapes, as well as a dirty floor littered with magazines and yellowed newspapers. = "Mr. Brodsky?" Miles said.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"I'm a private detective. Are you Mr. Brodsky?"

"Yeah, I'm Mr. Brodsky. What can I do for you?"

Miles held out his hand. "Hi there. I'm Miles Huerdeen."

The big man declined to shake, continued sorting through the forms.

"Call me Fred."

"Fred?" Miles frowned. "I'm looking for a Mr. Owen

Brodsky." ::

"You're looking for my dad

Oh. Do you know where I can find him? "Forest Lawn."

He had a sinking feeling in his chest. "You mean he's---"

"He died about a year ago. Heart attack. Why? What'd you need him for?"

Miles sighed. "I'm investigating a stalking case. My client's father has been threatened numerous times, and his life is possibly in danger.

He drew up a list of names, and quite a few people on that list have died under mysterious circumstances."

"I told you: my dad had a heart attack."

"I understand that. But I was hoping to speak to your father, if he was alive, to see if he knew of any connection between the names on the list, if he knew of any reason someone might be going after any of them."

"You might want to look up Hec Tibbert. He was one of my old man's buds. The two of them went way back. If anybody'd know about that kind of shit, Hec'd know."

"You have any idea where I might be able to find him?"

Brodsky shrugged. "Phone book, maybe."

"You got one here?"

"Yeah." With considerable effort, the fat man bent down

and opened one of the bottom desk drawers. He took out the White Pages and dropped the thick book onto the desk.

Miles turned to the T's and quickly scanned the row of names. "Is Hec his real name? There's an L. Tibbert in Torrance and a Peter Tibbert on Fairfax in L.A."

"Naw. Hec lives in Monterey Park or San Gabriel. Somewhere around there."

"Did your dad have a personal phone book? Someplace where he kept the names and numbers of friends and family?"

"There might be one back at the house."

"You think we could go over there and check?" Brodsky gestured at the mess around him. "I'm kinda

'twenty bucks." The fat man scowled. "Look, I don't know you from Adam. I told you what I -know, let you look at my phone book, but that's it. It's time for you to go now." 'qTwenty-five bucks."