"When, damn you, when will it come?" Peter found himself shouting.
The planchette seemed to withdraw from him a fraction of an inch.
"No, look, I'm sorry." God, I must be crazy, apologizing to a Ouija board. "What I mean is, do we have a deadline? Is there a crucial time for me? For Joana Raitt?"
Reluctantly, in little starts and stops, the planchette began to move again. It traveled back up to the letters. S-A-I-N-T, pause, JOHN.
"Saint John? What the hell is that?" Peter was shouting openly now, but he could not control himself. "Damn it, I don't want riddles! I asked when! The danger… the death… what is the deadline?"
WALKERS 4. SAINT JOHN.
"I don't understand!" Peter heard his own voice screaming, and fought for control. Ask the thing something else. Have to get the answers now. This may be the last chance.
Speaking slowly and deliberately he said, "How can we avert this danger? How can we escape death?"
The planchette jerked as though an electrical charge had shot through it, then dropped to the bottom of the board. The pointer came to rest on the word Goodbye.
"No!" Peter cried. "You can't stop, I'm not finished. I don't understand the message. I have to have more information."
Somewhere in one of the canyons a solitary church bell tolled.
Under Peter's straining fingers the planchette went dead. Abruptly there was nothing at all mystical about it. It was just a light wooden platform with three felt-tipped legs and a pointer. There was no use asking it any more questions. It would not move again, and Peter knew it.
He collapsed back onto the love seat. His mouth was parched, his fingers cramped into the clawed position he had held on the planchette. He sagged back against the cushions and breathed raggedly for several minutes with his eyes closed.
WALKERS 4? SAINT JOHN? What the hell did it mean? The key to it all must be there somewhere, could he but find it. He ground his teeth and tortured his mind, but came up with no meanings for the cryptic messages.
Peter massaged his eyes with his fingers. He opened them and blinked. Through the window he could see the sky slate-gray over the black shoulders of the mountains. It was coming on to dawn. He cursed aloud. He had sat up all night with that damned Ouija board and didn't know fuck-all more than when he started.
The smart thing to do now, he told himself, would be to get the hell to bed. Sleep. Refresh his spent mind, soothe his aching body. Then, after a few hours in the sack, he could give things a fresh look and maybe figure out what the hell was meant by WALKERS 4… SAINT JOHN.
Yes, sleep would be the smart thing to do now, no doubt about it. But hell, Peter thought, he hadn't done anything smart for several days. No use trying to start now. Besides, he felt in the very marrow of his bones the urgency of learning the answers to his questions.
Moving stiffly, he picked up the Ouija board and planchette, carried them across the room, and returned them to the bookshelf. From the writing desk he took the deck of Tarot cards. He peeled away the silk scarf, letting it float to the floor, and carried the deck back with him to the table. He sank heavily onto the love seat, shuffled the cards, cut them, and once again began laying out the Keltic cross.
Chapter 12
The window was all the way open, letting in the crisp scent of evergreen. It mingled with the raw-wood smell of the cabin in a bracing combination no laboratory could reproduce. Joana rolled over in the narrow bed and nuzzled Glen Early's bare shoulder.
He kissed the top of her head. "Comfortable?"
"I don't ever want to move."
"We'll probably have to when the next renters move into the cabin."
"I suppose so. What time is it?"
Glen reached down to the floor on his side of the bed and groped around until he found his wristwatch. He brought it up and looked at it.
"Six o'clock."
"a. m. or p.m?"
"P.M."
"Damn, that means our weekend is almost over," Joana said.
"Almost."
"Do you realize we spent the entire forty-eight hours right here in bed?"
"We did not," Glen said. "Saturday we walked down to the little store for food and beer, and just this morning we took a hike up the trail by the lake."
"That's right," Joana said, "I guess I forgot about those." She rubbed a hand over Glen's naked torso. He had crisp, curly chest hair, a flat stomach, nice narrow hips, and…
"Are you trying to start something?" he said.
"Just keep something going."
He rolled over to face her. Joana looked deeply into his eyes. He kissed her and she returned it, her mouth open and eager. His hand moved down over the smooth curve of her hack and came to rest on her bottom. She felt his rising sexual excitement against her thighs. She opened her legs. Glen's hand came around from behind her and slid into the damp nest between her legs.
Joana gasped as his strong fingers stroked her. She said, "I'm ready any time you are." Her voice was hoarse and whispery.
Glen threw off the sheet that covered them and shifted his position. Joana reached down to guide him into her. He was hard and hot, and she could feel his pulse throb in the big vein that ran along the bottom of his penis.
He rolled on top of her and she pulled him down, mashing her breasts against his chest. He was gentle at first and easy as he slid the length of him into her, then out. Gradually his movements became more insistent, even fierce, as the climax approached. She felt his release and the hot spurt of juices an instant before her own. Their bodies clung together, heaving, shuddering, then slowly quieting. Joana pressed her legs together, holding him inside.
"I love you, Joana," he said.
"Me too, you."
"Why don't we get married?"
She drew back her head and looked at him. "Did I hear right just now?"
"If you heard me ask you to marry me, you heard right," he said.
"You're kidding."
"Would I kid you in this position?"
"Especially in this position."
"Well, I mean it. How about it?"
Joana's entire body tingled electrically. She felt herself getting aroused all over again.
"You have such a romantic way with words," she said with her mouth on his.
"If you want, I'll do it later in rhyme, on bended knee."
"That would be nice."
"Seriously, Joana, I really want to be married to you. Spending these weekends together is great, and I'm always glad when we can get together during the week, but the days in between seem wasted. I don't want to take a chance on losing you."
"You mean it, don't you."
"Hell yes, I mean it."
"What about just moving in together. Dispense with all the paperwork and stuff."
"I thought about that, but to tell you the truth, I don't think it would work for me. There's just enough middle-class morality in my upbringing to make me uncomfortable with the idea. So I guess if we do it, it's going to have to be legal."
"Ah, my Glen, I do love you."
"Then how about it?"
"All right."
The new commitment acted on both of them as a powerful aphrodisiac, and it was another hour before they rolled out of bed and showered together to get ready for the trip home.
They talked quietly together about getting married as Glen steered the Camaro down the darkening road out of the mountains. They agreed they would not make any big deal out of the wedding, just tell a few close friends, then do it. They decided October would be a good time, right after the World Series.
As they came out of the mountains the road straightened, heading for the San Bernardino Freeway. The conversation lapsed. Joana's buoyant mood and her happy thoughts of the future dimmed, and the lurking fear crept back into the car with her.