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  "I know he doesn't," Peter broke in, "and I appreciate the trouble you went to."

  Susu continued as though he hadn't spoken. "When Hef invites a girl to come, he usually means the girl, period. So I hint around and hint around, and finally he says okay I can bring a friend. And what do I get from you?" She made her voice low and petulant, 'Let's stay home and eat pizza and watch TV.' What kind of crap is that?"

  Peter gazed levelly at her from the Stratolounger. "I told you, Susu, I just don't feel up to it. What more can I say?"

  "And I thought you were a swinger. Shit, you're ready for Leisure World, that's what you are. Turn on Lawrence Welk, why don't you? That's your speed."

  "Look, sweetie, why don't you just go on to the party and quit chipping at me."

  "You want me to go to Hugh Hefner's party by myself after I made such a big deal about bringing a friend?"

  "I'm sure he'll let you in."

  "You bet your ass he'll let me in. That's not the point."

  "Or take somebody else if you want to."

  "I might just do that, Mr. Swinger."

  "Goodbye, Susu."

  She stood for a moment glaring at him, her ripe little mouth pushed into an unattractive pout. Then she spun around and flounced out of the house, giving him a last saucy twitch of her delectable behind.

  Peter sat listening gloomily as Susu's heels clattered down the wooden stairs. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was flat getting old. After thirty a man ought to make some adjustments in his life style. Settle down, sink some roots. Anyway, it was a damn shame to waste Susu that way.

  He levered himself out of the chair and walked over to the window. Down below, the street was dark, with only a faint glow from the street light on the corner of Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Susu's taillights were just disappearing. Symbolic, Peter thought heavily, and turned away.

  The Tarot cards were still spread out on the low table. With a sigh, Peter sat down. He scooped up the pack and began to shuffle, then stopped. His eye fell on the Ouija board that was propped on a bookshelf across the room. Peter had always liked to use the board with his clients because it was so easy to manipulate. Most of the time he could just rest his fingers on the planchette and let the lady shove it around to spell out any message she wanted. If the client didn't start moving it herself in a minute or so, he could easily propel the little heart-shaped table to the "right" answers to her questions. Never had it entered Peter's mind that there was any mysterious force involved in the process. But then, never before had he seen anything in the Tarot cards, except a lot of meaningless pictures.

  He squared up the Tarot deck, wrapped it in the silk scarf, and put it away. From the shelf he took the Ouija board and set it down on the table in front of the love seat. He placed the three-legged planchette on the board, then sat back for a moment looking at it.

  Am I cracking up? he wondered. Have I been screwing around with the occult, faking my way through for so long that I've slipped a cog somewhere? Do I really expect this stupid board with the letters and numbers on it to tell me something?

  Then Peter asked himself the same question he had asked Joana Raitt two days before: What have you got to lose? The disturbing thought occurred to him that he might have more to lose than he wanted to know, but, having come this far, he could not turn back.

  Peter breathed deeply in and out several times, then placed his fingertips lightly on the planchette. He cleared his mind of all nonessential thoughts and forced himself to play fair. He vowed to do no, repeat no conscious moving of the table to spell out his own messages.

  With his eyes closed Peter focused his concentration down to a bright pinpoint of energy. In his mind there was nothing but the question Is anyone here?

  Nothing happened. He sat in the same position until his muscles ached with the strain of not moving. He kept his eyes closed. The question flashed on and off in his mind like an electric sign: Is anyone here?

  It was an hour and fifteen minutes after he sat down that the planchette moved under Peter's fingers. Just a tiny spasm, less than half an inch across the board, but unquestionably the thing had moved.

  Peter's eyes snapped open. He stared down at the planchette, which was again motionless. He riveted his concentration and asked the question again: Is anyone here?

  The planchette moved again. First it was tiny pulses, a bare millimeter at a time, then in larger spurts, and finally in a smooth but seemingly aimless pattern of loops across the board.

  Sweat beaded Peter's forehead. He stared down at the three-legged little table under his nerveless fingertips as it skated around the board on silent felt pads. The transparent plastic window with the pointer in the center seemed to be searching, searching.

  Although he had sat grinding his teeth for more than an hour, willing this phenomenon with all the concentration at his command, Peter could scarcely believe it was happening. In this world objects do not move by themselves. All the years of pretending, all the false messages he had given to the trusting women who paid him, now came back like a cold wind.

  Peter s head began to ache as he feught to keep his mind on the question: Is anyone here?

  The planchette slowed its aimless looping around the board then and moved with purpose to the left side. It stopped with sudden finality with the plastic window directly over the word Yes.

  At this point Peter's practice was to call for an identification of the spirit that was moving the planchette. It took up time and never failed to impress the clients. He usually arranged to spell out some glamorous Greek from the Golden Age, or sometimes an Indian, since they were commonly thought to be close to the psychic fringe. This time, however, he ignored the whole stagy business. It made no difference to Peter what power was moving the planchette under his fingers, the only thing that mattered was that it did move. Now there were questions to ask, and no time to waste.

  Aloud he said, "I want to ask a question about Joana Raitt."

  The table made no move. Peter took that as consent, and continued.

  "Is Joana Raitt in danger?"

  The planchette moved at once, sweeping smoothly around the board and returning to the spot where it had started: Yes.

  "Am I in danger?"

  Again the quick circuit of the board and the return to the little drawing of the sun in the upper-left corner and the answer: Yes.

  Peter's throat was dry. He forced himself to swallow. "Is my danger the same as Joana's?"

  Again: Yes.

  "Does all this have something to do with Joana's experience of 'dying'?"

  Yes.

  Peter looked quickly around the room. He had the irrational feeling that something might spring at him from the shadows.

  Quickly he asked, "Is the danger present at this moment?"

  The planchette slid across to the upper-fight portion of the board and stopped. No.

  All right, stop it, Peter told himself. You're getting hysterical. He closed his eyes again and put his mind to work. His body ached and he was wet with sweat as though he had just run a mile uphill. He could feel his energy draining away, and knew he must choose his remaining questions carefully.

  "What is the nature of the danger?"

  The planchette moved immediately to the two curved rows of letters at the center of the board. Without hesitating it slid along the top row and stopped for a moment on the D. Then, moving smoothly and with purpose, it stopped successively on E...A...T...H.

  DEATH.

  Oh, Jesus. Why, Peter asked himself, had he ever started this? No, that was foolish. There was no way he could have avoided it. It never occurred to him to doubt the answer. There it was, spelled out for him in capital letters: DEATH.

  "From where..." No, that was no good. Peter cleared his throat, swallowed, and began again. "In what form will the danger come?"

  The planchette almost jumped out from under his fingers. It dropped to the second row of letters and held for an instant on the W. Skimming over the board now, it quickly spelle
d out the answer: WALKERS.

  Peter waited for more, but the planchette rested. He could feel it vibrating under his fingers, as though there were a tiny motor humming inside.

  "I don't understand. What does that mean? Is it a name?"

  Again: WALKERS. Nothing more.

  It made no sense. Keeping his fingers on the planchette, Peter rolled his head to wipe the dripping

  sweat from his chin onto the shoulder of his shirt. He searched for another way to ask the same question.

  "This danger to Joana and me," he said slowly, "this... death, from what direction will it come?"

  BEYOND.

  Damn! He still knew nothing. Try again. "Who, or what, must we be on guard against."

  WALKERS.

  An exasperated curse formed in Peter's throat, but then the planchette moved again under his fingers. It dropped down from the double row of letters to the line of numerais. There it came to rest on the number 4. And there it stayed.

  "Walkers? Walkers 4? I don't understand. What does it mean?"

  The planchette quivered, but did not move.

  Another question. Ask it something else. Peter's head ached like fury. There was blood on the inside of his lip where he had bitten it. What to ask? When, that was it. He had to phrase the question carefully. He squeezed his eyes shut and the tears ran down his face.

  "This danger, when will it come?"

  The planchette shivered lightly under his touch, but stayed at rest.

  "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 baard. "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, J-O-H-N.

  "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 back 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 g
lad 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.

  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.