number. He punched it out on the pushbuttons, then sat trying to decide what he would say to her. In spite of his better judgment, he was involved in this thing now, and he had to do what he could to help Joana. To warn her.
The receiver burred repeatedly in his ear. After ten rings he gave up. She was not at home. Hovde left his apartmentand hurried around to the poolside. There lithe-bodied young men and women played happily in the water where this nightmare had begun three days ago. The doctor ignored them and jogged across the tiled deck to Glen Early's apartment. He pushed the buzzer, leaned on it, but there was no response from inside.
All right, he had done everything he could. Whatever happened from now on, he need feel no guilt. He walked slowly past the pool and back to his own apartment. He closed the sliding glass door between him and the tennis players and drew the draperies.
He sat down and tried to concentrate on the medical journals he had set aside earlier. It was no good, the printed words would not combine into coherent sentences. They swam finally before his eyes, and he saw in his mind Yvonne Carlson, all pallid skin and glittery eyes, walking... walking.
Chapter 11
Peter Landau stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined his reflection critically. It was Saturday night and he was freshly shaved and powdered, anointed with just a touch of a musky but masculine cologne. His teeth gleamed, his hair was blow-dried and gently sprayed into place. He should look like a million dollars. So why were those worry lines showing up around his eyes?
He clumped back out to the living room and dropped into the acrylic-fur recliner. Why, oh why, he asked himself again, did he ever get involved with Joana Raitt and her crazy tale of life after death? All he wanted was a little fooling around. Instead he got a whole truckload of trouble.
Ever since Thursday, when she had been here, there had been nothing but bad vibes. The readings he did for his regular clients had been mere recitations, delivered with none of his usual panache. It did not matter what he was working with—astrology, palmistry, the crystal, the Tarot—ominous shadows kept getting in the way of the glib nonsense he usually gave out. It was especially bad with the Tarot. A couple of his ladies had told him he didn't seem to be up to his usual form. He had passed it off as a touch of the flu, but if he didn't straighten out his act soon, his business would begin to suffer.
The shadows intruded on his personal life too. Tonight he had a date with an authentic Playboy centerfold named Susu. They were going to a party at Hugh Hefner's mansion in Holmby Hills. Ordinarily the prospect would have had Peter walking around six inches off the floor. Tonight he just felt like hell.
With a sigh he cranked the recliner forward and stood up. He went over to the table where the deck of Tarot cards rested. He shuffled, cut, and laid out the Keltic cross for himself. It was perhaps the twentieth time he had laid out the Tarot since Joana left Thursday. He was not enjoying it now the way he used to, as a game and mental exercise. Now it was real, and he hated it. There was a message for him in the damned cards, if only he could read it. All the years of rattling off phony interpretations for his ladies had blunted his sensitivities.
He stared down at the ten cards he had turned up to go with his own card, The Magician. They were all there this time, the ones that kept turning up. The Queen of Cups, The Tower, The Hanged Man, and Death. They were not always in the same positions, and sometimes one or more of them did not appear, but there was one card he could always count on seeing. Death.
An automobile horn honked several times down in the street. Peter ignored it and continued to stare gloomily at the cards.
All right, go over it once again. The Queen of Cups, that was Joana. She was somehow bound to his own future. The Tower, bad news no matter how you
The receiver burred repeatedly in his ear. After ten rings he gave up. She was not at home. Hovde left his apartmentand hurried around to the poolside. There lithe-bodied young men and women played happily in the water where this nightmare had begun three days ago. The doctor ignored them and jogged across the tiled deck to Glen Early's apartment. He pushed the buzzer, leaned on it, but there was no response from inside.
All right, he had done everything he could. Whatever happened from now on, he need feel no guilt. He walked slowly past the pool and back to his own apartment. He closed the sliding glass door between him and the tennis players and drew the draperies.
He sat down and tried to concentrate on the medical journals he had set aside earlier. It was no good, the printed words would not combine into coherent sentences. They swam finally before his eyes, and he saw in his mind Yvonne Carlson, all pallid skin and glittery eyes, walking... walking.
Chapter 11
Peter Landau stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined his reflection critically. It was Saturday night and he was freshly shaved and powdered, anointed with just a touch of a musky but masculine cologne. His teeth gleamed, his hair was blow-dried and gently sprayed into place. He should look like a million dollars. So why were those worry lines showing up around his eyes?
He clumped back out to the living room and dropped into the acrylic-fur recliner. Why, oh why, he asked himself again, did he ever get involved with Joana Raitt and her crazy tale of life after death? All he wanted was a little fooling around. Instead he got a whole truckload of trouble.
Ever since Thursday, when she had been here, there had been nothing but bad vibes. The readings he did for his regular clients had been mere recitations, delivered with none of his usual panache. It did not matter what he was working with—astrology, palmistry, the crystal, the Tarot—ominous shadows kept getting in the way of the glib nonsense he usually gave out. It was especially bad with the Tarot. A couple of his ladies had told him he didn't seem to be up to his usual form. He had passed it off as a touch of the flu, but if he didn't straighten out his act soon, his business would begin to suffer.
The shadows intruded on his personal life too. Tonight he had a date with an authentic Playboy centerfold named Susu. They were going to a party at Hugh Hefner's mansion in Holmby Hills. Ordinarily the prospect would have had Peter walking around six inches off the floor. Tonight he just felt like hell.
With a sigh he cranked the recliner forward and stood up. He went over to the table where the deck of Tarot cards rested. He shuffled, cut, and laid out the Keltic cross for himself. It was perhaps the twentieth time he had laid out the Tarot since Joana left Thursday. He was not enjoying it now the way he used to, as a game and mental exercise. Now it was real, and he hated it. There was a message for him in the damned cards, if only he could read it. All the years of rattling off phony interpretations for his ladies had blunted his sensitivities.
He stared down at the ten cards he had turned up to go with his own card, The Magician. They were all there this time, the ones that kept turning up. The Queen of Cups, The Tower, The Hanged Man, and Death. They were not always in the same positions, and sometimes one or more of them did not appear, but there was one card he could always count on seeing. Death.
An automobile horn honked several times down in the street. Peter ignored it and continued to stare gloomily at the cards.
All right, go over it once again. The Queen of Cups, that was Joana. She was somehow bound to his own future. The Tower, bad news no matter how you
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