Gary Brandner - Walkers

"We're not going to get busted, are we?" the fat girl said.

"Just tell me what happened, please."

The second boy spoke up. He was thin, with a pointed nose that dripped on his upper lip. "Don't worry, they can't use anything we say against us. He didn't read us our rights, and besides, we got no attorney here."

"You are not under arrest," the deputy explained patiently. "I'm just trying to establish the circumstances of the young woman's death."

"Yeah, well, okay," said the moon-faced boy, "just let me get it together for a minute." He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then said, "What happened, we were doing a little angel dust Wednesday, okay?"

Breedlove and Hovde exchanged a glance. Angel dust, PCP, phencyclidine. Cheap and easy to make, readily available at any high school. And just about the deadliest drug on the streets.

"No big deal," the boy continued. "Just nice and mellow, okay?"

The deputy made some notes in a book.

"So it turns out Quilla isn't used to angel dust, right? I mean, we all thought she turned on to anything. She talked like a heavy doper. How were we going to know she was new at it?"

"I mean, all she ever did before was grass," the pimply girl put in. "She was a beginner."

"What happened after you all took the angel dust?" the deputy asked.

"Quilla starts freaking right away. I mean, bad. Screaming and running around and yelling a bunch of crazy stuff. Then she took off up the Coast Highway."

"Did you try to stop her?"

"Are you kidding? Did you ever try to stop somebody freaked out on angel dust? No way. I mean, they're so strong you wouldn't believe it."

Dr. Hovde listened to the exchange with a growing sense of horror.

"What happened then?" the deputy prompted.

"Okay, Quilla runs into the parking lot of this restaurant up the highway, right? Two or three of us are following her. We want to see she don't do nothing to bring the cops down on us, you know."

"Sure. Go on."

"Then she really flips out. I mean all the way. There's this girl standing down by the cliff looking out over the water, and Quilla takes off at her like a wild animal, screaming all the way. The girl sees her coming and runs away along the cliff with Quilla after her. About that time the people inside the restaurant hear all the yelling, and they come spilling out the door. The last we seen, Quilla and the girl are wrestling way down on the edge of the cliff. You could see them clear in the moonlight. Well, we didn't hang around there anymore, we split for home."

"This happened Wednesday night?"

"Yeah."

"This is Monday. Why didn't you report it before today?"

"Be serious, man. I mean, do we want a lot of cops crawling all over our place? Anyway, we didn't know for sure Quilla was dead."

Dr. Hovde broke in. "Are you saying that this girl was alive last Wednesday when you followed her to the restaurant?"

Everyone in the room turned to stare at the doctor.

"Well, damn it, was she?" he snapped.

"Hey, yes, man, she was alive. Freaked out, sure, but just as alive as you are, okay?"

Hovde did not wait to hear any more. He jerked open the door and rushed out and down the hall to the nurses' station. The thought pounded at him that Quilla Styles was alive last Wednesday. Alive. She Was not one of the walkers. There had been only three, not the four that were coming. And tonight, Midsummer Night, was the Eve of St. John.

He snatched the telephone from in front of a startled nurse and dialed Joana's home number. He let it ring seven times, then slammed the receiver down in frustration when there was no answer.

"Do you have an L.A. phone book?" he demanded of the nurse.

"Why, yes, Doctor."

"Well, let me have it!"

The nurse blinked, then reached under the counter and brought up the thick book of Los Angeles white pages. Hovde riffled through it until he found the name of the department-store chain that Joana worked for. He spun the dial and drummed his fingers impatiently, waiting for an answer.

He was transferred from the switchboard to the corporate offices, and finally to the advertising department. He asked for the manager.

"John Walton speaking."

"Mr. Walton, this is Dr. Warren Hovde. It's urgent that I speak to Joana Raitt."

"I'd like to help you out, Doctor, but Joana hasn't come in yet. She called to say she'd be a little late."

"As soon as she comes in, have her call me at this number." He read the digits off the front of the telephone. "Tell her it's most important."

"I'll sure do that, Doc."

Hovde rang off and stood for a moment, his pulse racing. Joana would be relaxed and off guard today, thinking the last of the walkers had struck and been beaten. She did not know there was still oneunaccounted for.

He lifted the phone again and dialed the number of Glen Early's office. He listened to the buzz on theother end with sweat beginning to soak through his shirt.

Joana swung down the path leading from her house to the street, feeling light and free. She was late starting for the office, but she had called in, and John Walton told her to go ahead and take all the time she wanted. The extra hour in bed was a treat, but it was enough. She was eager now to go to work and get her life back into a normal pattern.

She took out her key case to unlock the Datsun, and paused. Was that her telephone ringing? Who would be calling at this hour?

She ran back across the lawn, fumbling the front door key out of the case as she ran. Inside, the telephone continued to ring. She got the door open, ran into the house, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

Only a dial tone answered.

Damn, wasn't that always the way? It was a small thing, but a nagging annoyance in her otherwise carefree day. Why couldn't they have hung on for just one more ring? Don't worry about it, she told herself. It was probably somebody trying to sell her a bargain trip to Las Vegas.

She went back outside and got in her car, but could not put the phone call completely out of her mind. It was like a tiny itch in a place she couldn't scratch.

She drove on down Santa Monica Boulevard to Century City, turning off there onto Avenue of the Stars. Suddenly traffic jammed up in front of her and came to a dead stop.

Joana was anxious now to be at her desk where she could get at the work she had neglected for a week, and here she was stalled just a block away from her building.

In the unmoving traffic lane next to her an angry-looking man got out of his Volvo and peered up ahead in the street.

Joana leaned across the seat and rolled down the window. "What is it?"

"Some kind of an accident, I guess. I see a police car and an ambulance. Whatever it is, it's costing me money." He climbed back into his car and gripped the steering wheel, glaring straight ahead as though trying to melt away the traffic jam with the force of his anger.

Joana looked down at her own hands and saw that she too was, tense. She relaxed her grip on the wheel and dropped her hands into her lap. She drew in a deep breath. It was all part of living in the big city. Traffic jams, potholes, smog, earthquakes. You couldn't do anything about them, so you might just as well be calm.

A police officer stepped out to the middle of the street and began directing traffic. Gradually the cars began to move out. Joana inched her way over into the curb lane so she would be in a position to turn into the parking garage. As she neared the entrance she saw a dark red smear on the pavement near the curb. An ambulance was pulled up there and the white-coated attendant stood in a knot of people talking animatedly to a policeman. Joana looked away from the scene. She had seen all the blood and death lately that she could handle.