During most of the weekend she had been able to pretend that the terrible thing in the swimming pool had never happened, and to keep out of her mind the events that had followed. But now they were returning from their cabin in the sky to the real world, and somewhere in this world lurked an unnamed menace. Joana laid a hand on Glen's thigh. He put his hand over hers for a moment and smiled at her. The bucket seats in the Camaro prevented her from moving as close to him as she would have liked.
They were both silent as they joined the freeway parade of people returning home to Los Angeles from the weekend. Glen had to give his full attention to his driving, and Joana did not feel like talking anyway. She snapped on the car radio and found an FM station that was playing easy-listening rock. For the remainder of the trip she closed her eyes and let Kris Kristofferson and Linda Ronstadt take over.
It was ten o'clock when Glen pulled up at the house on Beachwood Drive. He parked behind Joana's Datsun, and they walked together up the path through the shrubbery that led to her house.
At the front door Glen set down her bag and kissed her. Joana clung to him. For a reason she could not explain, she felt like crying.
"Glen?"
"Hmm?"
"We don't have to, you know."
"Have to what?"
"Get married."
He looked at her, his eyes deep and serious. "I know we don't. Are you having second thoughts?"
"No, not me. I just thought that you, up there with the trees and the moon and the cabin and all that romantic stuff, might have, well, got carried away."
Glen took both her hands in his. "Joana, hear me. I love you. I mean I really, flat-out love you. And I want to marry you. You are the most important thing in my life."
She squeezed his hands. "But aren't you scared? About getting married, I mean?"
"Sure I am. A man would be a fool not to be a little scared. What about you?"
"I am too, a little. But I'll tell you one thing, I'm sure not scared enough to say no. Mister, you got yourself engaged."
Glen tilted her chin up, but before he could kiss her, the telephone bell shrilled inside the house.
Joana frowned. "Who would be calling me at this hour?" She unlocked the door. "Come in for a minute, Glen. I'll take care of whoever's on the phone, then we can say good night properly."
He followed her inside and closed the door.
Joana hurried to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing. The voice that spoke to her over the wire was high-pitched and agitated.
"Joana, thank God I finally got you. Where have you been all day?"
"I've been out. Who is this?"
"Peter. Peter Landau. Listen, I've got to talk to you. I think I've figured it out."
"Figured what out? What are you talking about?" She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Glen. "It's Peter Landau."
"What does he want?"
"I don't know. He's not making sense."
"Joana, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here, Peter. What's this all about?"
"I don't want to talk about it over the telephone," he said.
"Why not, for heaven's sake?"
"I just don't. Can you come up here?"
"No way," Joana said firmly. "I just got home, I'm tired, and I'm certainly not going anywhere without knowing what this is all about."
"I'll come to your place then."
"Peter, I'm not in the mood for visitors."
"I'm not a visitor. I have to talk to you."
"Besides, Glen is here."
"I don't care who's there. Damn it, Joana, I'm not putting a move on you. I've found out something. Something important as hell. It's vital that you know about it right away."
There was a jagged edge of hysteria to Peter's voice. Joana had no doubt he was deadly serious.
"All right," she said, "come on over, but don't make it late. I'm really tired."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
The phone went dead in Joana's hand. She stared at it a moment before hanging up.
"He insists on coming over here," she said to Glen. "Says he's found out something important that I should know. He sounded a little bit crazy. Can you stay until he gets here?"
"You couldn't drive me away," Glen said.
Joana put on a pot of coffee, and she and Glen sat uneasily together in the living room waiting for Peter Landau.
Several blocks away, down the hill toward Hollywood, a big man with powerful shoulders walked silently toward Joana's house. The flesh of his face was unnaturally dark and bloated. His arms hung straight at his sides. The man's eyes were dull and dead.
Chapter 13
After he finally reached Joana by phone and made arrangements to go to her house, all the starch went out of Peter Landau. He sagged limply in his Stratolounger, braced now in the full upright position. His hand lay on the dead telephone for a full minute.
"What… the… fuck… have I got myself mixed up in?" he asked the empty room.
There was no answer.
Throughout his life Peter had danced nimbly away from all kinds of sticky situations. Taking Care of Number One was his way of life, and it was a full-time job. There was no allowance in his personal budget for getting involved with other people's problems. Especially not a problem as grotesque as the one bearing down on Joana Raitt.
So with fast footwork and a keen nose for trouble, he had managed for years to be Mister Uninvolved. And now look where he was-all the way in with both feet, and no way out.
"Oh, shit, fuck, goddamn!" he said aloud, and slammed his fist down on the broad furry arm of the chair. Then, with a heavy sigh, he hoisted himself to his feet and headed out the door.
It had been a full ten hours earlier, just before noon, that Peter had first called Joana's number. He had spent a sleepless Saturday night trying vainly to decipher the message of the Tarot cards and failing to get any further response from the Ouija board. Finally he had gone to his collection of books on the occult.
Over the years Peter had purchased the books largely for window dressing. They had worn leather bindings with a sensual feel, and titles that hinted at mystical worlds beyond the five senses. The books, he thought, added a nice touch of scholarly research to the place. His clients had been suitably impressed.
Never before, however, had Peter sat down to read any of the books seriously. He had only skimmed through a couple of them to pick up some occult-sounding jargon, or to find some theatrical touch he could add to his consultations.
But never before had there been a real reason to search through the books. Beginning early Sunday morning Peter went through them systematically, looking for answers he was afraid to find.
He had written down, as accurately as he could remember it, his exchange with the Ouija board. On a sheet of paper he had the key words heavily underlined: WALKERS 4…SAINT JOHN. He scanned the dusty pages for any references that might fit. The meaning of the message could be found somewhere in the old books, of that he was certain.
In the back of his mind there was an echo of the words from the story Joana had told him of her experience in the tunnel of death. Peter sorely regretted now that he had not taken notes, or at least listened more carefully to what she was saying. At the time, however, he was concerned only with getting Joana into bed. How unimportant that seemed now.
It had something to do with the voice that had so frightened Joana. There was a mention of St. John, and the number four. Beyond those hazy details, Peter could not remember.
Undeniably there was a connection between Joana's experience and the Ouija-board message for Peter. He felt driven now to find it. The Tarot had shown him that his own fate was bound to Joana's.