know but people in our family.
Then, two days ago, he was nearly run over by. a black car with blacked-out windows that swerved to hit him as he was crossing the street. He only escaped by leaping onto the sidewalk and jumping into the doorway of a jewelry store.'
'You told this to the police? She nodded. What did they say?'
She opened her small handbag, drew out a card, and passed it across the desk to him. 'I talked to this guy, Detective Madder, and he said there was nothing they could do until something more concrete occurred.
He wrote down the information about the phone call, took a description of the car, and then basically told us that it was going in a file and wasn't going to be acted on. Then he gave me this card and told me to keep him informed. My father didn't even want to go to the police, I convinced him to, and after that he became adamant about handling this by himself. So I'm here on my own. He doesn't know anything about this.'
'We can't provide protection,' Miles said. 'We're an investigative firm, not a security company--'
'I know,' she interrupted. 'I just want you to find out who's doing this and why. After that we'll either go to the police with what we have or... or figure out something else.'
Find out who's doing this and why.
As juvenile and stupid as it was, he felt energized. He was in his own movie now, and this made up for all those boring bureaucratic cases he was ordinarily forced to handle. He took out a pen and notebook.
'Your father lives where?'
'Santa Monica. 211 Eighth Street.'
'And you and your husband?'
'Arizona. We're only out here for a few weeks. My husband's a writer, and he's meeting with some movie people about optioning his book.'
'So how much longer will you be staying in California?' 'Probably another week or so.' She paused. 'Unless something else happens. I'm a teacher and I'm supposed to be back at work on January second, but if my dad's in danger... 'We'll try to clean this up quickly.' Miles smiled at her and she smiled back. 'Your husband's a writer, huh? I assume that's how you met Phil Emmons.'
Her face brightened. 'Yes! Phillip's been a godsend. Gordon met him at a horror convention in Phoenix last year, and he's the one who helped him find a movie agent. We're only out here today because of Phillip.'
Miles smiled. 'Yeah. He's quite a guy.'
Marina cleared her throat embarrassedly. 'He mentioned something about 'reasonable rates.' I don't know how much you charge, but we can't afford too much. If you could give me an... estimate, let me know what we're looking at...'
'Don't worry, about it. We'
Naomi stuck her head around the corner of the cubicle. 'Miles, phone.'
He raised his hand. 'I'm with a client. Get a number and tell them that I'll call them back.'
'Miles, it's an emergency. Your father. He's in the hospital.'
He was instantly up and out of his chair. 'Take care of her!' he shouted to Hal, motioning back toward his cubicle as he ran up the aisle toward the front desk. His heart seemed to have stopped, and his chest hurt by the time he reached Naomi's chair because he'd been holding his breath. He let out a huge exhalation of air, reached over the desk, and grabbed the phone, pressing the blinking light on the console. 'Hello?' .... 'Mr. Huerdeen
His heart was pumping again. Not just pumping, pounding. He could barely hear over the sound of the blood thumping in his head. 'What is it? What's happened?'
'I'm sorry, Mr. Huerdeen, but your father has had a stroke.'
Stroke.
It was not something he had expected, not anything he had ever thought about or even considered. Miles' mouth felt dry, and for a second he was afraid that he'd forgotten how to speak, but the words finally came out, weak and fearful. 'How... how did it happen?'
'He was at a grocery store when he collapsed. The manager immediately called the paramedics, and they rushed him here. We found your name and this contact number in his wallet.'
'Oh, God,' Miles breathed. 'Oh, Jesus.' He leaned back against the wall for support, closing his eyes. He had a sudden picture in his mind of his father reaching for a can of soup and failing on the linoleum floor, taking shelves of groceries down with him, dying among strangers who had come
to the store to buy food and were now dispassionately watching an old man take his last breath on their way to the produce department.
'He's stable right now, but he's not conscious, and we're keeping him monitored in the CCU. He's most likely suffered some brain damage, although we won't know the extent of it until--- ..... 'What hospital?'
Miles demanded.
'St. Luke's on--' ....... I'll be right there.' Miles slammed down the phone just as Naomi reached her desk. 'Have Hal take over that client for me.' He hit the elevator's Down button. 'I'm not sure when I'll be back.'
'Is your father all right?'
'He's had a stroke.' Miles slammed his palm against the button again, as if trying to hurry the elevator, but when there was no immediate response, he sprinted toward the stairwell door. 'I'll call!' he yelled back to Naomi.
And then he was in the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, leaping the last few to each landing. On the ground floor, he dashed through the building's lobby and out to his car in the 'adjacent lot.
St. Luke's. That was over on Winnetka, close to home. His dad had probably been shopping at Ralph's.
Somehow, knowing where it had happened, knowing the physical layout of the location, brought it home to him, made it more immediate, less abstract, and the panic flared within him. Thankfully, though, it did not seem to impair his judgment or coordination. He did not have to fumble through his key ring to fred the car key, did not have to work with shaking hands to get the car started. If anything, he seemed to be thinking clearer than usual. Everything seemed to be in sharp focus, he had total control over his movements and thought processes, and he sped out of the parking lot, past
a Salvation Army Santa, and onto Wilshire, zooming effortlessly into a convenient hole in the traffic.
His luck did not hold.
All of the streets leading to the Ventura freeway seemed to be under construction, and it was like one of those horrific stress dreams. He'd sit in congestion for two blocks, then finally turn down a side street until he hit another major thoroughfare, only to have the same thing happen all over again. It took him twenty minutes to drive six miles, and by the time he reached the freeway, he was a nervous wreck. His jaw hurt from clenching his muscles, and through his mind ran the dozens of death scenarios he'd imagined while waiting for stoplights to change.
It was clear sailing from then on out, however, and ten minutes later, he was in the hospital elevator, heading up to the Critical Care Unit.
His chest felt tight, and though he knew it was only from stress, he could, not help thinking that if he was having a heart attack, this was the best place for it to happen.
There was a nurses station backed by a wall of monitors just past the elevator, and Miles quickly walked over to the one person who looked up at his entrance, a young Asian man wearing blue scrubs. 'I'm lookhg for my father, Bob Huerdeen. He had a stroke and he's supposed to be in the
CCU.'
It came out as a single frightened sentence, and he was half expecting to be told the worst, but the man was nodding before he'd even finished speaking, walking quickly around the counter to join Miles. 'He's in room twelve. Follow me.'
Room twelve was halfway down the hallway and, like seemingly all of the other rooms on this floor, had a big window opening onto the corridor so that the medical personnel passing by could do instant visual checks on the patients inside. Miles saw his father before he even walked
