U Is for Undertow

No sign of it. Walker wondered if he’d been mistaken. Maybe the kid hadn’t recognized him after all. Maybe it was a situation where someone looks familiar and you can’t quite place them. Thus the long stare. As Brent slowed for a four-way stop, Walker spotted the MG approaching from the right.
    Brent said, “What’s the deal? Do you know that guy?”
    “He threatened me once.”
    “What was that about?”
    “Too complicated to go into. The guy’s a nut.”
    “You want me to lose him?”
    “If you can, but keep it low-key. I don’t want him to think I give a shit.”
    Brent pushed the accelerator, increasing his speed by degrees, four miles an hour, then five. Unfortunately the surface streets presented a constant run of stoplights and stop signs, which allowed the MG to stay close.
    Brent said, “The guy’s climbing up my tailpipe. If I spot a black-and-white, you want me to flag him down?”
    “No, don’t do that. We get to the bank, drive on past and drop me around the corner on Center Road. I’ll walk back from there and maybe shake him that way.”
    “Does he know where you work?”
    “I doubt it, but I’d just as soon not tip him off.”
    Brent cruised into Montebello and turned onto the main street. The MG was hung up briefly. Traffic at the intersection was regulated by a four-way stop sign and cars obligingly took turns. Brent sped up for the next three blocks and made a left turn onto Center, then pulled into the driveway of a small gym. Hastily Walker got out and waved Brent on. The Pelican was right there on the corner, one driveway down. He started to cross the motel parking lot, thinking to skirt the rear of the building, which at least shielded him from view. At the last minute, however, he changed his mind and took Redbird Road, an ancillary road that ran for one long block parallel to Old Coast.
    Walker put his hands in his pockets and covered the distance as quickly as he could. The kid had nothing on him. A chance encounter twenty-one years before and what would that prove? Walker couldn’t imagine why the police had been digging in the woods. Kinsey Millhone had somehow drawn a bead on his dad, using god knows what reasoning, but there was no real link between Walker and the dead dog. Maybe she’d talked to a number of veterinarians who’d been in practice at the time, and his dad was simply one.
    He turned left on Monarch Lane, the side street that intersected Old Coast Road. The bank was on the corner and his office was located at the far end of the building. He traversed the parking lot, making a covert visual sweep as he pushed through the glass door into the reception area. When he paused to look back, he spotted the MG passing on the street. The girl was staring in his direction and he saw her reach over and grab Michael Sutton’s arm to get his attention. The MG slowed and Michael peered past her at the front of the bank. Walker stepped away from the glass and then pivoted and took the side corridor to his office, where he closed the door.
    At 6:00 he left the bank and walked the two blocks to his motel. He’d intended to eat dinner at the bar and grill off the Pelican parking lot, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk in. He’d halted at the door, struck by the smell of whiskey and beer. The cigarette smoke didn’t bother him as much as the clatter of flatware, diners bending over their plates, sawing away at steaks and pork chops. Nine days sober and he felt the old quickening, the automatic spark of excitement when he knew a drink was in the offing. Not tonight. Rather than order a meal, steeling himself against the old associations of red meat and red wine, he turned on his heel and returned to his room. He watched TV for a while, flipping from channel to channel.
    At 9:15 he left his room again, crossed the street to the twenty-four-hour gas station, and shut himself into a public phone booth with a bifold door. He put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed Jon Corso’s number. On the street a car slowed, turned in, and stopped in front of the pumps. Walker lowered his head, obscuring his face. He was behaving like a fugitive.
    After four rings Jon picked up, sounding brusque. He was probably working on a new book, irritated at the interruption. “Hello?”
    “We need to talk.”
    There was a pause of four seconds. “About what?”
    “I’d rather not say on the phone.”
    “And why is that?”
    “Shit, Jon. You’re the one who’s paranoid.