Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

by Clive Barker

  "I love you, dog," he said. "And I want you to be there when I get to Heaven, okay? I want you to be keeping a place for me. Will you do that? Will you keep a place for me?"

  There was a discreet knock on the door, and Todd's stomach turned. "Time's up, buddy," he said, kissing Dempsey's burning-hot snout. Even now, he thought, I could say no, I don't want you to do this. He could take Dempsey home for one more night in the big bed. But that was just selfishness. The dog had had enough, that was plain. He could barely raise his head. It was time to go.

  "Come in," he said.

  The doctor came in, meeting Todd's gaze for the first time. "I know how hard this is," she said. "I have dogs myself, all mutts like Dempsey."

  "Dempsey, did you hear that?" Todd said, the tears refusing to abate. "She called you a mutt."

  "They're the best."

  "Yeah. They are."

  "Are you ready?"

  Todd nodded, at which point she instantly transferred her loving attention to the dog. She lifted Dempsey out from Todd's arms and put him on the steel table in the corner of the room, talking to him all the while. "Hey there, Dempsey. This isn't going to hurt at all. Just a little prick—"

  She pulled a syringe out of her pocket, and exposed the needle. At the back of Todd's head that same irrational voice was screaming: "Tell her no! Knock it out of her hand! Quickly! Quickly!" He pushed the thoughts away, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, because he didn't want to be blinded by them when this happened. He wanted to see it all, even if it hurt like a knife. He owed that to Dempsey. He put his hand on Dempsey's neck and rubbed his favorite place. The syringe went into Dempsey's leg. He made a tiny little grunt of complaint.

  "Good boy," Doctor Otis said. "There. That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

  Todd kept rubbing Dempsey's neck.

  The doctor put the top back on the syringe and pocketed it. "It's all right," she said. "You can stop rubbing. He's gone."

  So quickly? Todd cleared away another wave of tears and looked down at the body on the table. Dempsey's eye was still half-open, but it didn't look back at him any longer. Where there'd been a sliver of bright life, where there'd been mischief and shared rituals—where, in short, there'd been Dempsey—there was nothing.

  "I'm very sorry, Mister Pickett," the doctor said, "I'm sure you loved him very much and speaking as a doctor, I know you did the right thing for him."

  Todd sniffed hard, and reached over to pluck a clump of tissues from the box. "What does that say?" he said, pointing to the framed poster on the wall. His tears made it incomprehensible.

  "It's a quote by Robert Louis Stevenson," Andrea said. "You know, the man who wrote Treasure Island ?"

  "Yeah, I know . . ."

  "It says: 'Do you think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.'"

  SIX

  He waited until he got home, and he'd governed his tears, to make arrangements for Dempsey's cremation. He left a message with a firm that was recommended by the animal hospital for their discreet handling of these matters. They would pick Dempsey's body up from the hospital mortuary, cremate him and transfer his ashes, guaranteeing that there was no mingling of "cremains"—as they described them—but that the ashes they delivered to the owner would be those of their pet. In other words they weren't putting canaries, parrots, rats, dogs and guinea pigs in the oven for one big bonfire and dividing up the "cremains" (the word revolted Todd) in what looked to be the appropriate amounts. He also called his accountant at home and made arrangements for a ten-thousand-dollar donation to the hospital, the only attendant request being that five hundred of that money be spent on putting in a more comfortable bench for people to sit on while they waited.

  He slept very well with the aid of several Ambien and a large scotch, until about four-thirty in the morning, when he woke up and felt Dempsey moving around at the bottom of the bed. The drugs made his thought processes muddy. It took him a few seconds of leaning over and putting the coverlet at the bottom of the bed to bring his consciousness up to speed. Dempsey wasn't there.

  Yet he'd felt the dog, he would have sworn to it on a stack of Bibles, getting up and walking around and around on the same spot, padding down the bed until it was comfortable for him.

  He lay back on the pillow and drifted back to sleep, but it wasn't a healthy sleep thereafter. He kept half-waking, and staring down at the darkness of the bottom of the bed, wondering if Dempsey was a ghost now, and would haunt his heels until the dog had the sense to go on his way to Heaven.

  He slept in until ten, when Marco brought him the phone with a woman called Rosalie from the Pet Cremation Service. She was pleasant in her no-nonsense way; no doubt she often had people in near hysteria at the other end of the telephone, so a little professional distance was necessary. She had already been in contact with the hospital this morning, she said, and they had informed her that Dempsey had a collar and quilt with him. Did Todd want these items returned, or were they to be cremated with his pet?

  "They were his," Todd said, "so they should go with him."

  "Fine," said Rosalie. "Then the only other question is the matter of the urn. We have three varieties—"

  "Just the best you've got."

  "That would be our Bronze Grecian Style."

  "That sounds fine."

  "All I need now is your credit card number."

  "I'll pass you back to my assistant. He can help you with all that."

  "Just one other question?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you ... the Todd Pickett?"

  Yes, of course, he was the real Todd Pickett. But he didn't feel like the real thing; more like a badly bruised lookalike. Things like this didn't happen to the real Todd Pickett. He had a way with life that always made it show the bright side.

  He went back to sleep until noon then got up and ate some lunch, his body aching as though he were catching a heavy dose of the flu. His food unfinished, he sat in the breakfast nook, staring blankly at the potted plants artfully arranged on the patio; plants he'd never persuaded Dempsey not to cock his leg against every time he passed.

  "I'm going back to bed," he told Marco.

  "You don't want to put a holding call in to Maxine? She's called nine times this morning. She says she has news about a foreign buyer for Warrior."

  "Did you tell her what happened to Dempsey?"

  "Yes."

  "What did she say?"

  "She said: oh. Then she went back to talking about the buyer."

  Todd sighed, defeated by the woman's incomprehension. "Maybe it's time I got out of this fucking business," he said to Marco. "I don't have the balls for it any longer. Or the energy."

  Marco put up no protest at this. He hated everything about the business, except Todd, and always had. "Why don't we go down to Key West like we always promised ourselves? Open a bar. Get fat and drunk—"

  "—and die of heart attacks at fifty."

  "You're feeling morbid right now."

  "A little."

  "Well it won't last forever. And one of these days, we'll have to honor Dempsey and get another dog."

  "That wouldn't be honoring him, that'd be replacing him. And he was irreplaceable. You know why?"

  "Why?"

  "Because he was there when I was nobody."

  "You were pups together."

  This got a smile out of Todd; the first in forty-eight hours. "Yeah . . ." he said, his voice close to breaking again. "We were pups together." He tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway. "What is wrong with me?" he said. "He was a dog. I mean ... come on. Tell me honestly, do you think Tom Cruise cries for a day if one of his dogs dies?"

  "I don't think he's got dogs."

  "Or Brad Pitt?"

  "I don't know. Ask 'em. Next time you see 'em, ask 'em."

  "Oh sure, that's going to make a dandy little scene. Todd Pickett and Brad Pitt: 'Tell me, Brad, when your dog died did you wail like a girl for two days?'
"

  Now it was Marco who laughed. "Wail like a girl?"

  "That's how I feel. I feel like I'm in the middle of some stupid weepie."

  "Maybe you should call Wilhemina over and fuck her."

  "Wilhemina doesn't do fucks. She does lovemaking with candles and a lot of wash-cloths. I swear she thinks I'm going to give her something."

  "Fleas?"

  "Yeah. Fleas. You know, as a last act of rebellion on behalf of Dempsey and myself I'd like to give fleas to Wilhemina, Maxine and—"

  "Gary Eppstadt."

  Both men were laughing now, curing the hurt the only way it could be cured, by being included in the nature of things.

  Speaking of inclusion, he got a call from his mother, about six o'clock. She was at home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, but sounded ready to jump the first plane and come visit. She was in one of her "I've a funny feeling" moods.

  "What's going on?"

  "Nothing."

  "Yes there is."

  She was inevitably right; she could predict with startling accuracy the times she needed to call her famous son and the times when she should keep her distance. Sometimes he could lie to her, and get away with it. But today wasn't one of those days. What was the point?

  "Dempsey's dead."

  "That old mutt of yours."

  "He was not an old mutt and if you talk about him like that then this conversation ends right here."

  "How old was he?" Patricia asked.

  "Eleven, going on twelve."

  "That's a decent age."

  "Not for a dog like him."

  "What kind of dog would that be?"

  "You know—"

  "A mutt. Mutts always live longer than thoroughbreds. That's a fact of life."

  "Well, mine didn't."

  "Too much rich food. You used to spoil that dog—"

  "Is there anything else you want besides lecturing me about how I killed my dog with kindness?"

  "No. I was just wanting to chat, but obviously you're in no mood to chat."

  "I loved Dempsey, Mom. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "If you don't mind me observing something—"

  "Could I stop you?"

  "—it's sad that the only serious relationship you've had is with a dog. It's time you grew up, Todd. You're not getting any younger, you know. You think about the way your father aged."

  "I don't want to talk about this right now, okay?"

  "Listen to me."

  "Mom. I don't—"

  "You've got his genes, so listen for once, will you? He was a good-looking man, your father, till he was about thirty-four, thirty-five. Now, granted he didn't take care of himself and you do—I mean he smoked and he drank a lot more than was good for him. But his looks went practically overnight."

  "Overnight? That's ridiculous. Nobody's looks go—"

  "All right, it wasn't overnight. But I was there. I saw. Believe me, it was quick. Five, six months and all his looks had gone."

  Even though this was an absurd exaggeration, there was an element of truth in what Patricia Pickett was saying. Todd's father had indeed lost his looks with remarkable speed. It would not have been the kind of thing a son would have noticed, necessarily, but Todd had a second point-of-view on his father's sudden deterioration: his best friend Danny had been raised by a single mother who'd several times made her feelings for Merrick Pickett known to her son. The rumors had reached Todd, of course. Indeed they'd become practically weekly reports, as Danny's mother's plans to seduce the unwitting subject of her desires were laid (and failed) and re-laid.

  All this came back to Todd as his mother went on chatting. Eventually, he said, "Mom, I've got to go. I've got to make some decisions about the cremation."

  "Oh, Lord, I hope you're keeping this quiet. The media would have a party with this: you and your dog."

  "Well all the more reason for you to clam up about it," he warned. "If anybody calls, saying they want a quote."

  "I know nothing."

  "You know nothing."

  "I know the routine by now, honey. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

  "Don't even tell the neighbors."

  "Fine! I won't."

  "Bye, Mom."

  "I'm sorry about Brewster."

  "Dempsey."

  "Whatever."

  It was true, when Todd gave the subject some serious thought: Merrick Pickett had indeed lost his looks with startling speed. One day he'd been the best-looking insurance agent in the city of Cincinnati, the next (it seemed) Danny's mother wouldn't look twice at him. Suppose this was hereditary? Suppose fifty percent of it was hereditary?

  He called Eppstadt's office. It took the sonofabitch forty-eight minutes to return the call and when he did his manner was brusque.

  "I hope this isn't about Warrior?"

  "It isn't."

  "We're not going to do it, Todd."

  "I get it, Gary. Is your assistant listening in on this conversation?"

  "No. What do you want?"

  "When we had lunch you recommended a guy who'd done some work for a few famous names."

  "Bruce Burrows?"

  "How do I get hold of him? He's not in the book."

  "Don't worry. I'll hook you up."

  "Thanks."

  "You're making a good call, Todd. I hope we can get back in business as soon as you're healed."

  Once he had the number, Todd didn't leave himself further room for hesitation. He called Burrows, booked the consultation, and tentatively chatted over some dates for the operation.

  There was one piece of outstanding business before he could move on: the disposal of Dempsey's ashes. Despite the reassurances of Robert Louis Stevenson, Todd did not have any clear idea as to the permanence of any soul, whether animal or human. He only knew that he wanted Dempsey's mortal remains to be placed where the dog had been most happy. There was no doubt about where that was: the backyard of the Bel Air house, which had been, since his puppyhood, Dempsey's unchallenged territory: his stalking ground, his school-yard when it came to learning new tricks. And it was there, the evening before Todd put himself into the hands of Bruce Burrows, that he took the bronzed plastic urn provided by the cremation company out into the yard. The urn contained a plastic bag, which in turn contained Dempsey's ashes. There were a lot of them; but then he'd been a big dog.

  Todd sat down in the middle of the yard, where he and Dempsey had so often sat and watched the sky together, and poured some of the ashes into the palm of his hand. What part of this gray sand was his tail, he wondered, and which his snout? Which part the place behind his ear he'd love you forever if you rubbed? Or didn't it matter? Was that the point about scattering ashes: that in the end they looked the same? Not just the snout and the tail, but a dog's ashes and a man's ashes. All reducible, with the addition of a little flame, to this mottled dust? He put his lips to it, once, to kiss him good-bye. In his head he could hear his mother telling him that it was a gross, unhealthy thing to do, so he kissed it again, just to spite her. Then he stood up and cast Dempsey's ashes around, like a farmer sowing seeds. There was no wind. The ash fell where he threw it, evenly distributed over the mutt's dominion.

  "See you, dog," he said, and went back into the house to get himself a large bourbon.

  PART THREE

  A Darker Time

  ONE

  For four months, in the summer of his seventeenth year, Todd had worked at the Sunset Home for the Elderly on the outskirts of Orlando, where he'd got a job through his Uncle Frank, who worked as an accountant for Sunset Homes Incorporated. The place was little more than a repository for the nearly-dead; working there had been the most depressing experience of his young life. Most of his duties did not involve the patients—he had no training as a nurse, nor did he intend to get any. But the care of one of the older occupants, a man by the name of Duncan McFarlane, was given over to him because McFarlane was prone to unruliness when he was being bathed by the female nurses. McFarlane was no great tr
ouble to Todd. He was just a sour sonofabitch who wasn't going to make anybody's life one jot easier if he could possibly avoid it. The ritual of giving a bed-bath to his patient was Todd's particular horror; the sight of his own body awoke a profound self-disgust in the old man. Asking around, Todd had discovered that McFarlane had been an athlete in his prime. But now—at the age of eighty-three—there was no trace of the strength or the beauty his body had once possessed. He was a pallid sack of shit and resentment, revolted by the sight of himself.

  Look at me, he would say when Todd uncovered him, Christ, look at me, Christ, look at me. Every time it was the same murmured horror. Look at me, Christ, look at me.

  To this day, the image of McFarlane's nakedness remained with Todd in all its grotesque particulars. The little beard of dirty white hair that hung from the old man's scrotum; the constellation of heavy, dark warts above his left nipple; the wrinkled folds of pale, spotted flesh that hung under his arms. Todd felt guilty about his disgust, and kept it to himself, until one day it had been the subject of discussion in the day-room, and he'd discovered that his feelings were shared, especially by the male members of the nursing staff. The female nurses seemed to have more compassion, perhaps; or were simply indifferent to the facts of creeping senility. But the other men on the staff—there were four of them besides Todd—were afterward constantly remarking on the foulness of their charges. One of the quartet—a black guy from New Orleans called Austin Harper—was particularly eloquent on the subject.

  "I ain't endin' up like any o' these ol' fucks," he remarked on more than one occasion, "I'd blow my fuckin' brains out 'fore I'd sink that fuckin' low."

  "It won't happen," Todd had said.

  "How'd you reckon that, white boy?" Austin had said. He'd patted Todd on his backside; which he took every possible opportunity to do.

  "When we're as old as these folks there'll be ways to fix it," Todd replied.

  "You mean we'll live forever? Bullshit. I don't buy any of that science-fiction crap, boy."

  "I'm not saying we'll live forever. But they'll have figured out what gives us wrinkles, and they'll have a way to smooth them out."