It was shortly before noon when he finally tracked down the answers. He came upon the key in two books: The Symbolism of Paranormal Experience and Significant Dates in Witchcraft and Demonology.
Peter checked and rechecked the books, hoping in vain to find he was mistaken. Finally he could not deny the horrifying answer. It was time to act. The first thing he had to do was tell Joana what he had learned. Then they could make plans on how best to fight the terror that stalked them both.
When he dialed Joana's number and got no answer on the other end, Peter could have cried in frustration. After the night-long session with the Tarot and the board, and the morning spent over the curious volumes of occult lore, he was consumed with a terrible sense of urgency in getting to Joana.
When he could not raise her, he tried Glen Early at the Marina. No answer there either. It was a simple deduction that Joana and Glen were out somewhere together. Peter prayed that they would return in time for him to share his knowledge before it was too late.
Throughout the afternoon he dialed both numbers repeatedly. Finally he forced himself to wait fifteen minutes between calls. He drank quarts of black coffee, but ate nothing. He had no appetite for food.
By nightfall Peter's head ached fiercely and his eyes burned. The muscles of his neck and upper back were tight as steel cables. Half a dozen times, to force himself away from the telephone, Peter returned to the books. Part of his mind still searched for a flaw in his findings, but in his heart he knew better. Each rereading of the passages, he had marked only convinced him anew of the imminent danger to Joana.
As the evening wore on, Peter's mind began to grow mushy. He found himself unable to concentrate on anything for more than a couple of minutes. This was no good. He knew he had to stay alert for when Joana returned from wherever she was.
He went into the bathroom and dug back into the cupboard under the sink. Pushed into a deep corner was the bottle he was after. It was still three-quarters full of bennies, the original hot-cross aspirin. Peter had not used uppers since the days when he was scrambling around for acting jobs, but he had kept this bottle, thinking vaguely that there might be an emergency someday when he would need them. The emergency was here.
Peter shook two pills out of the bottle and swallowed them with water from the tap. They left a faint bitter aftertaste on the back of his tongue. He checked his watch. Eight-fifteen. He should feel the effects in an hour. The cobwebs would clear from his mind and he would be wide awake. Tomorrow he would cancel his appointments and sleep off the after effects, but for tonight he had to stay sharp.
At ten o'clock there was an answer at last at Joana's number. By then the benzedrine had taken hold, and Peter's words came out in an agitated rush. He knew it was futile to try to explain what he had learned over the telephone, especially since he could not fully control his voice. He had to see Joana, tell her of the danger face to face, so he could convince her of the urgency.
When Joana refused to come to his place, he quickly agreed to go to her. It made no difference to him whether Glen Early or a dozen Glen Earlys were there. As a matter of fact, it might be well for Glen to know about this too. If he could convince the practical-minded engineer that the danger was real and imminent, Glen would make one more player on their team.
Without bothering even to turn out the lights, Peter ran out of the house and down the stairway out in front. Once he tripped on the rickety wooden steps and caught the railing barely in time to keep from pitching forward head first. He continued to the street at a more cautious pace. It would be unforgivable now to get himself incapacitated when he was probably the only person in the world who could help Joana Raitt.
He swung open the door to the garage set into the hillside below the house. Inside, the Corvette gleamed sleek and powerful. Peter jumped in, keyed the engine to life, and roared out into the night.
It took an effort of will to keep his foot light on the accelerator as he careened down Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Even so, the tires screeched in protest every time he took a curve.
After a journey that seemed endless, he reached Hollywood Boulevard at the foot of the canyon. He cranked the steering wheel to the left and floored the gas pedal. Just a mile and a half to go.
He tooled up Beachwood, squinting at the dim house numbers to check his progress. He let out a breath he had been holding unconsciously when he recognized Joana's Datsun parked at the curb. Behind it was a Camaro that probably belonged to Glen Early.
Peter jammed to a stop and sprang out of the car. The path across the yard to Joana's front door wound through heavy clusters of ferns and oleander bushes. Peter started toward the house at a trot.
A sound from close behind made him pull up suddenly. Crashing toward him through the heaviest growth of shrubbery came a man. He was over six feet tall and broad through the shoulders and chest. The man carried his hands awkwardly out in front of him, not even trying to push aside the brush. From one clenched fist dangled something that looked like a rope.
The man gave no sign that he even saw Peter. Without slowing, he continued in a long loping stride toward the house. Peter, his nerves jangling with the effects of the amphetamine, stared at him.
"Hey-" he began, but at that moment the man approached close enough for Peter to see his face. The skin was dark and congested-looking. Crooked teeth showed behind the man's drawn-back lips. And the eyes, oh Jesus, the eyes. There was no spark in them. They were flat. And they were dead.
God in Heaven, Peter thought, he's one of them.
Before he could react, the man was almost upon him. The expression on the dark, heavy face was one of ferocious dedication. The gaze of his lifeless eyes fastened on Joana's house.
Without thinking what he was doing, Peter reached out for the man to stop him. A short, backhanded blow from the big man swatted Peter's hands away like a baby's. Peter lunged at him again, and opened his mouth to shout a warning to the house.
The shout never left Peter's throat. In a single swift motion the big man brought up the dangling thing he carried and whipped it around Peter's neck, cutting off his breath instantly.
Peter's hands flew to his throat, his fingers clawing for air. His sense of touch flashed the brain the irrelevant message that he was being strangled by a silk necktie. The more he struggled, the tighter drew the noose.
The face of the big man swam and wavered before Peter's eyes. Pinpoints of light danced in the darkness. The pressure on his throat was agonizing. Peter's last clear mental image was of a Tarot card-The Hanged Man. He heard, rather than felt, the soft crunch when his larynx collapsed. It was the end of all sensation.
The big man, still gripping the tie that cut into Peter's neck, dragged the inert form across the grass and into a thick clump of ferns out of sight from the house or from the street. Then he turned back toward the house and resumed the stiff, loping walk toward Joana's door.
Chapter 14
Inside the house, Joana and Glen waited. They sat close together on a low sofa Joana had bought at a used-furniture store and re-covered herself. A log burned in the fireplace without producing much warmth. They tried fitfully to talk, but both of them kept looking expectantly at the front door.
"What do you suppose Peter wants to see you about?" Glen said.
"I don't know," Joana said, "but whatever it is, it sounded serious."
Conversation died, and the two young people sat silently waiting.
A sudden noise from out in front of the house made them both start. There was a soft thump, then an indistinct shuffling sound. They turned and looked at each other. Glen tried a smile that did not come off.