Bentley Little - The Walking

Miles nodded.

'The caregiver will be dropping by today just to intro duce herself, to explain a little bit about what she does and when she'll be coming over permanently."

"She won't be living with us, will she?"

'That can be arranged if it becomes necessary, but at this time Dr.

Yee does not think your father requires round-the clock professional care. So no. She'll probably come in the morning, stay the day, and you'll be responsible for watch thing your father at night, which shouldn't be too hard since he'll be sleeping then. But the caregiver will explain more about that to you this afternoon. Mostly, she'll be coming by to see the layout of your house, determine if there needs to be any modifications in your father's bed or other furniture. Things like that." She smiled. "As I said, if there are any problems, just give me a call."

Miles left the hospital shortly after speaking with Dr. Yee on his afternoon rounds and hurried home. A pretty, youngish red-haired woman who looked like a country music singer was already waiting for him, leaning against the hood of her

Camry, a brown briefcase at her feet. He parked on the street, got out of the car, and walked toward her. "Hello," he said.

"I'm Miles Huerdeen."

"My name's Audra? Audra Williams? I'm the home health nurse assigned to your father?"

She had a pronounced Southern accent that made statements sound like questions, and though he ordinarily had a prejudice against such a manner of talking--its speakers al ways sounded stupid to him--Audra exuded an air of confidence and competence, and as she began explaining what she did and how she would be assisting his father, he stopped even noticing her accent.

The two of them walked through the house, Audra jotting down notes in a leather-bound organizer. In Bob's room, she stated that she would be ordering a new bed for him, an adjustable hospital bed, and then she added on her list a special mattress and a meal tray. Miles didn't know if any of these accessories were covered by insurance, but he nodded in agreement.

They finished up in the living room, where she gave him a stack of pamphlets as well as a video on home health care. He led her to the door and was about to say good-bye when

Audra turned toward him. "Mr. Huerdeen?"

"Yes ?"

"I just want you to know that I'm a Christian? I'd like to get that straight from the beginning? I'm a God-fearing woman? I am here to provide a service to your family in this, your hour of need, but I am born-again, and I think you should know that up front?"

: That came out of nowhere.

She looked at him expectantly, and Miles maintained the strained smile on his face.

A God-fearing woman.

Why would a woman who defined herself as Cbxistian fear God? Shouldn't she love God? He never had been able to understand the bizarre system of interlocking, overlapping rewards, promises, and prohibitions that born-again Christians used to guide their lives.

He considered replacing Audra, asking for someone else. That was why she'd warned him, and it was a considerate thing to do. Especially in this situation. A born-againer, he knew, would really annoy the hell out of his dad. Of course, he and his dad would annoy the hell out of anyone even remotely religious, and Miles thought that maybe his father

would like that. It might boost his spirits to be involved in a little bloodless battle now and then.

He smiled at the nurse. "Audra?" he said. "I'm glad you'll be here.

The next day was the second Sunday of the month. Miles had learned from Marina Lewis that although her father wasn't going to be there this weekend, he ordinarily sold Amberolas at the Rose Bowl's monthly flea market. He'd worked for forty years as a lathe operator in a machine shop, but after retirement, looking for something to do with his time and in need of a few extra bucks, he'd started buying and restoring antique phonographs. Marina said that most of his friends these days were fellow antique sellers.

She had no specific names to give him, and once again her father was being peculiarly uncooperative, so Miles' barebones plan was to go to the swap meet and ask around until he found someone who knew Liam Connor.

He stopped by the hospital first to see his dad, stayed until he'd had a chance to talk to Dr. Yee, and then headed up the side streets toward Pasadena, avoiding the freeways : that were being earthquake retrofitted.

Wind overnight had blown away most of the smog, and the sky above the Rose Bowl was actually blue. Miles paid an outrageous six dollars to park in a vacant lot next to the Bowl, and when he got out of the climate-controlled car, he found that the outside air was cool and reasonably seasonal.

He walked through the gates toward the gigantic jumble . | of vendors, customers, and browsers that ringed the stadium. He felt like a real detective today, as though he was actually doing some investigating, and that, combined with the clean cool air, gave him a rare feeling of well-being.

He pushed through a wall of morns with strollers and

stopped in front of the first table. "Excuse me," he asked the hunched old man standing behind a display of glass milk ........ bottles. "Do you know Liam Connor?"

The old man looked at him, through him, then tttmed away, not answering.

Miles resisted the temptation to knock one of the milk bottles to the ground and instead looked around the collection of dealers to see if there were any sellers of antique phonographs in this area. He figured vendors were probably grouped by category. Unfortunately, this section seemed to be mostly knickknacks, bottles and china, and he made his way through the crowd, glancing around as he headed down the east side of the Rose Bowl.

The placement of sellers followed no logical order, he discovered almost instantly. It was pure luck that the vendors near the entrance had exhibited similar wares, because as he moved deeper into the flea market, he saw furniture next to jewelry, vintage clothing next to farm implements. And the place was massive. It would probably take all day to fred someone who knew Marina's father.

Still, he thought his idea of finding another seller of phonographs was a good one, and he walked up and down the aisles, looking for Victrolas or Amberolas or other types of old record players.

He passed a lot of tables covered with antique toys--apparently a hot trend among current collectors--and several of the so-called and ques were things he'd had as a child. He saw his old James Bond lunch pail selling for fifty dollars, his Hot Wheel Supercharger for thirty-five.

He wandered past boxes of Life magazines, stacks of old Beatle albums.

Next to an Aurora Wolfman model he saw a Fred Flintstone Pez dispenser.

One of the small candies was pushed halfway out, and Fred's head was tilted slightly back, making it look as though his throat had been slit.

Miles looked away. Montgomery Jones' death the other

day had affected him more than he'd thought. Now he was even ascribing malevolent meaning to Pcz dispensers.

Which reminded him that he should call Graham. He hadn't talked to the lawyer since leaving the crime scene, but the murder had somehow been kept out of the papers and off the TV news, and Miles wanted to know if that was Graham's doing or if Thompson had pulled some strings. He also wanted to know if the lawyer wanted him to pursue his investigation of the company or if everything was now in the hands of the police.

Miles kept walking. Ahead was a blanket spread on the ground atop which were old Victrola speaker horns. A heavily bearded, grossly overweight man with a long, greasy ponytail sat in a metal folding chair behind the blanket, polishing what looked like a miniature speaker horn.

"Excuse me," Miles said. The man looked up. "Do you know Liam Connor?"