Walkers by Gary Brandner

grip she had, too. Lots stronger than normal for her.
    "Okay, if she didn't want to see a doctor, I wasn't going to force her. I said 'Let's go to bed' but she said she wasn't sleepy. I said, 'Okay, I'll sit up with you.' But she didn't want to sit either. She walked, thats all, just walked. Around and around the house, out to the kitchen, back in here, through the bedrooms, then the kitchen again. I couldn't get her to sit still. It was like she was pacing the floor, nervous, waiting for something."
    "How long did that go on?"
    "All night, as far as I know. I dropped off to sleep finally on the davenport and when I woke up she was still at it—walking, walking, stopping every now and then to look out the window. Some time while I was asleep she put some clothes on, but her hair was still all messed up."
    "Did she say anything to you during all this time?" Hovde asked.
    "Not much, just a few words. And when she talked her voice was funny. Empty-sounding, like there
    wasn't any breath behind it."
    "She didn't sleep?"
    "Not that I know of. Didn't eat anything either. When i woke up and saw the shape she was in, I called my office and told them I wouldn't be in until later. I went out to the kitchen and made us a nice big breakfast—I used to do that on Sundays—but Vonnie wouldn't eat a bite of it." Carlson's voice caught, and he sat silently working his hands for a minute before he continued.
    "All this time she didn't do anything but pace the floor and look out the window. Then, all of a sudden, about eleven o'clock, I guess, she grabbed her car keys off the mantel and headed out to the wagon. I ran after her. 'Where you going?' I asked her.
    "She didn't even look at me. 'There's something I have to do,' she said, just like that. And that's all. She got in the car and drove off, and that's the last I saw of her. The next I heard was about three o'clock when I got the call from the police."
    Carlson passed a hand roughly across his lips. "I guess you know what happened after that."
    When he saw that Avery Carlson was not going to say any more, Horde stood up and started moving toward the door. After a moment Carlson got up too.
    "I want to thank you for giving me this much of your time," Hovde said. "And again, please accept my sympathy."
    "Sure. Thanks," Carlson said.
    Dr. Horde left the neat, clean little house and drove back toward Los Angeles. The story Carlson had told left him deeply disturbed. And beyond that, the man's grief, still not fully realized, was a darker echo of his own loneliness for Marge.
    "Oh, damn, damn, damn !" Horde swore as he pulled onto the freeway heading south. He had the answers he came to get, but was he any better off? He knew things now he did not want to know.
    There was simply no natural explanation for what had happened to Yvonne Carlson. No amount of time spent researching in medical libraries could answer the frightening questions raised by the evidence. There was no avoiding the fact that Yvonne Carlson had died at midnight on Wednesday. The autopsy showed that, and the woman's husband was a witness to it, even if he didn't know it. When she lay on the bathroom floor with the faulty hair dryer in her hand and 110 volts surging through her body, she was dead. And yet, thirteen hours later she had been behind the wheel of a station wagon that had almost run down Joana Raitt. The same Joana Raitt who had experienced a weird "death" by drowning the night before. Coincidence? As much as Warren Hovde wanted to believe there was no connection between the two women, he could not buy it. Joana was involved, no question. And what was more, Dr. Horde had an overwhelming premonition that she was in danger.
    When he got back to the Marina Village, Hovde gave no attention to the graceful parade of boats heading out the channel toward the ocean. He hurried into his apartment, fighting against a growing, irrational sense of urgency. He looked through his notebook and found Joana Raitt's telephone