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?'
'Liam? Sure. You want his card?'
'No, I want to ask you a few questions about him.'
The man's expression shut down. What had been willing helpfulness became blank neutrality. 'Sorry. Can't help you.'
'I'm not a cop,' Miles quickly explained. 'I'm a private investigator.
I've been hired by Mr. Connor's daughter to investigate a possible stalker. Mr. Connor has apparently been followed and harassed recently, and his daughter is worded. I was wondering if he'd talked to you about any of this or if he'd mentioned any enemies that he might have.'
'Liam?' The man let out a loud, gruffly obnoxious laugh that caused most of the browsers nearby to look in his direction. 'Liam doesn't have an enemy in this world!'
Miles smiled thinly. 'Apparently he does.'
The laughter died. 'Seriously? Someone's stalking him?' 'We think so.'
'Why? To... kill him?'
'That's what I'm trying to find out. If you could just tell me whether he's talked to you about--'
'Wait a minute. Why are you asking me what he talked about? Why don't you ask him?' The man looked at Miles suspiciously. 'You're investigating him, aren't you?' 'No, I assure you, his daughter hired me--'
'His daughter's probably after his money or something.' The man shook his head. 'Nope. If Liam ain't talking, I ain't talking.' He picked up the rag he'd placed on his lap and started polishing the small horn he'd been working on.
Miles knew better than to press the man, and he peeled off a card, dropped it on the blanket. 'ais is legit. Call Mr. Connor and ask him if you want. And if you think of some thing, give me a call.'
The man just looked at him. He didn't reach down to pick up Miles' card, but he didn't tear it up either. Miles hoped that the man would keep it and change his mind.
Several other vendors knew Liam, and two of them were more than willing to talk, but neither of them seemed to have heard anything or noticed any unusual behavior on his part recently.
It was nearly three o'clock when Miles made his way dejectedly back out to the car. He knew no more now than he had when he'd first arrived.
The whole day had been a waste, and he wanted to just go home and take a nap. But instead he stopped by the hospital, and he held his father's hand and listened to his unintelligible whispers and lied to the old man that everything was going to be all right.
Derek Baur woke up knowing that he would die today.
He'd dreamed the night before about Wolf Canyon, and in the dream the people in the water had been his family: his parents, his sister, his brothers. He hadn't thought of Wolf
Canyon for year; decades, and that should have tipped him off that there was something amiss, but the premonition was not so logical, was not tied to a story line or a series of images or a specific dream scape. It was not something he had been told, not sOmething he had concluded or deducted. He just knew. And he was ready.
He'd turned eighty-six last March, and his wife, his friends, even his son, had all died years before. He was the last, and he had long since given up all pretense of interest in this life. There was no longer anything he enjoyed, nothing he looked forward to. Death was the only thing left.
How would it comes Derek wondered. Gently, in his sleep? Violently?
Or somewhere in the middle, like a heart attack or stroke?
He had given a lot of thought to the subject, and he had concluded that there was no pleasant way to die. In his midfifties he had almost choked to death on a piece of steak in a restaurant, before Emily had pounded him on the back and dislodged the obstruction in his throat.
Though the entire incident had lasted only a few seconds, to him it had felt interminable. Time was subjective, and he had realized ever since that while a death might be considered 'quick' if measured objectively by the clock, to the victim it might seem to take forever.
So while he was ready to die, he did not relish the process. He rolled over, pulled open the drape. Outside, the Michigan landscape was covered with snow. In the rest home's parking lot, the cars looked like a row of igloos more than motor vehicles.
He was still staring out the window when Jimmy, the new attendant, brought in his breakfast. And he had not moved by the time the attendant returned to collect the tray and untouched dishes a half hour later.
'Not hungry, Mr. Baur? I'm gonna have to report you, yOU know.'
Derek did not even bother to respond.
Why eat when he was going to die?
He would be glad to put an end to this existence. He was not mistreated here, but he hated the rest home,
