by Clive Barker
"—with ass-kissers. Yeah. You said that."
Todd heard Donnie get up and cross to the door, dragging his feet as he always had.
"What are you doing?" Todd said.
"I'm leaving. Like I said I would. You're going to be fine. That faggot Burrows will take very good care of you."
"Don't I get a hug or something?"
"Another time. When I like you better," Donnie said.
"And when the hell will that be?" Todd yelled after him.
But all he got by way of reply was the echo of his own voice off the opposite wall.
THREE
Maxine turned up a little after seven, and after a few perfunctory expressions of relief that Todd was "back from the dead," as she indelicately put it, quickly moved on to the news she was here to debate.
"Somebody in this place has a big mouth," she said. "I got a call from the editor of the Enquirer this afternoon, asking if it was true that you'd been admitted to a private hospital. I told him absolutely not; this was a lie, garbage, etc., etc. And I said that if he published that you were in the hospital or anything vaguely resembling that, we'd sue him and his wretched rag. Ten seconds later I've got Peter Bart calling from Variety, asking the same damn question. And while I'm on with Peter, trying not to tell him an out-and-out lie 'cause he has a nose for bullshit, I have a call from People on the other line, asking the same question. Coincidence? I don't think so."
Todd moaned behind his mask of bandages.
"I've told Burrows we have to move you," Maxine went on.
"Wait, Donnie said yesterday you told him that you wanted me to stay here."
"That was before I got the calls. Now it's just a matter of time before some photographer finds his way in here."
"Shit. Shit. Shit."
"That would make a nice little picture, wouldn't it?" Maxine said, just in case Todd hadn't already got a snapshot in his mind's eye. "You lying in bed with your face all bandaged up."
"Wait!" Todd said. "They'd never be able to prove it was me."
"The point is: it is you, Todd. Whoever's put out the word about your being here is working in this building. They've probably got access to your records, your charts—"
Todd felt a spasm of the same panic that had seized him when he'd first woken up. The horror of being trapped. This time he governed it, determined not to let Maxine see him losing control.
"So when are you getting me out of here?" he said.
"I've got a car coming at five tomorrow morning. I've told Burrows I want the security in this place tripled till you leave. We'll take you to the beach house in Malibu until we find somewhere more practical."
"I can't go home?" Todd said, knowing even as he floated the idea that it was out of the question. That would be the first place the journalists and the paparazzi would come looking for him.
"Maybe we should fly you out of state when you're feeling a little better. I'll call John; see if I can get him to fly you up to Montana."
"I don't want to go to Montana."
"You'd be a lot more secure up there than here. We could arrange for round-the-clock nursing—"
"I said no. I don't want to be that far away from everything."
"All right, we'll find some place here in the city. What about your new lady-friend, Miss Bosch? She's going to be asking questions too. What do you want me to tell her?"
"She's gone. She's shooting something in the Cayman Islands."
"She was fired," Maxine said. " 'Creative differences,' apparently. The director wanted her to show her tits and she said no. Though God knows some of her runway work has left little to the imagination. I don't know why she's got coy all of a sudden. Anyway, she wants to talk to you. What do I say?"
"Anything you like."
"So you don't want her in on this?"
"Fuck no. I don't want anybody to know."
"Okay. It's going to be difficult, but okay. I've got to go. Do you want me to send a nurse in to give you something to help you sleep?"
"Yeah . . ."
"We'll find a place for you, until you mend. I'll ask Jerry Brahms. He knows the city back to front. All we need's a little hideaway. It needn't be fancy."
"Just make sure he doesn't get wind of what's going on," Todd said. "Jerry talks."
"Give me a little credit," Maxine replied. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. You get some sleep. And don't worry, nobody's going to find out where you are or what's happened. I'll kill 'em first."
"Promise."
"With my bare hands."
So saying, she was out of the room, leaving Todd alone and in the dark.
Donnie was right, of course. This was undoubtedly the stupidest thing he had ever done. But there was no going back on it. Life, like a movie, only made sense running in one direction. What could he do but go with the flow and hope to hell there was a happy ending waiting for him in the last reel?
A storm moved in off the Pacific in the middle of the night; the seventh storm of that winter, and the worst. Over the next forty-eight hours it would dump several inches of rain along the coast from Monterey to San Diego, creating a catalogue of minor disasters. Storm-drains overflowed and turned the streets of Santa Barbara into white-water rivers; two citizens and seven street-people were swept away and drowned. Power-lines were brought down by the furious winds, the most badly struck area being Orange County, where a number of communities remained without power for the next three days. Along the Pacific Coast Highway, where the wildfires of the previous autumn had stripped the hillsides of vegetation, the naked earth, no longer knitted together by roots, turned into mud and slid down onto the road. There were countless accidents; fourteen people perished, including a family of seven Mexicans, who'd only been in the promised land four hours, having skipped over the border illegally. All burned up together, trapped in their overturned truck. In the Pacific Palisades, the deluge carried away several million-dollar homes; in Topanga Canyon, the same.
Of course all this made the business of getting Todd from the hospital to Maxine's beach-house both more lengthy and more frustrating than it would have been otherwise, but it may have helped to keep the endeavor secret. Certainly there were no photographers at the hospital door when they left; nor anybody waiting for them in the vicinity of the beach-house. But that didn't mean they were out of danger. Calls to Maxine's offices inquiring about Todd's condition had multiplied exponentially, and they were now coming in from further afield—several from Japan, where Gallows had just opened—as the rumors spread. One of the German reporters had even had the temerity to suggest that Todd was undergoing plastic surgery.
"I gave him hell. Fucking Kraut."
"Aren't you German on your mother's side?"
"He's still a fucking Kraut."
Todd was sitting in the back of Maxine's Mercedes, with Nurse Karyn—who had been thoroughly investigated by Maxine and judged reliable—at his side. The nurse was a woman of few words: but those she chose to utter usually carried some punch.
"I don't see why y'all give a damn. I mean, what does it matter if somebody gets wind of it? He just got a chemical peel and a few nips and tucks. What's the big deal?"
"It's not something Todd's fans need to know about," Maxine replied. "They've got a certain idea of who Todd is."
"So they'd think it wasn't too masculine?" Nurse Karyn said.
"Shall we just move on from this?" Maxine said, catching Nurse Karyn's gaze in the driving mirror, and shaking her head to indicate that the conversation—or at least this portion of it—was at an end. Todd, of course, saw none of this. He was still bandaged blind.
"How are you doing, Todd?" Maxine said.
"Wondering how soon—"
"Soon," Maxine said. "Soon. Oh, by the way, I had a word with Jerry
Brahms, and told him exactly what we needed. Two hours later he came back to me, said he had the perfect house for you. I'm going to see it with him tomorrow."
"Did he tell you where it was?"
&nbs
p; "Somewhere up in the hills. Apparently, it was a place he used to go and play when he was a kid. I guess this is in the forties. He says it's completely secluded. Nobody's going to come bothering you."
"He's full of shit. They have fucking bus tours up in the hills. Every other house has somebody famous living in it."
"That's what I told him. But he swore this house was ideal. Nobody even knows about the canyon it's in. That's what he said. So we'll see. If it isn't any good for you, I'll keep looking."
Later that afternoon, Burrows came out to the beach-house to change Todd's dressings. It was a surreal ritual for all concerned: Todd semi-recumbent on the Deco sofa in the large window overlooking the beach, Maxine sitting at a distance, nursing an early vodka stinger, Burrows—his confidence tentatively back in place after the prickly exchanges of the previous day—chatting about the rain and the mud-slides while he delicately removed the bandages.
"Now the area around your eyes is going to be a little gummed up," he warned Todd, "so don't try and open your eyes until I've done some cleaning."
Todd said nothing. He was just listening to the boom of his heart in his head, and outside, the boom of the storm-stirred waves. They were out of step with one another.
"I wonder," Burrows said to Maxine, "if you'd mind closing the blinds a little way? I don't want it to be too bright in here when I uncover Todd's eyes."
Todd heard Maxine crossing to the window; then the mechanical hum of the electric blinds as they were lowered.
"I think that'll be far enough," Burrows said. A click, and the hum stopped. "Now, let's see how things look. Hold very still, Todd, please."
Todd held his breath as the dressing which the bandages had kept in place was gently teased away from his face. It felt as though a layer of his skin were coming away along with the gauze. He heard a little intake of breath from Maxine.
"What?" he murmured.
"It's okay," Burrows said softly. "Please hold still. This is a very delicate procedure. By the way, when I put the new dressing on, I'll be leaving holes for your eyes, so you'll be able to . . . very still, please . . . good, good ... so you'll be able to see."
"Maxine . . . ?"
"Please, Todd. Don't move a muscle."
"I want her to tell me what it looks like."
"She can't see yet, Todd."
Burrows said something to his nurse, half under his breath. Todd didn't catch the words. But he heard the gauze, which had now been stripped from his face completely, dropped with a wet plop into a receptacle. He imagined it soaked with his blood, shreds of his skin stuck to it. His stomach turned.
"I want to puke," he said.
"Shall I stop for a moment?" Burrows asked.
"No. Just get it over and done with."
"Right. Well then I'm going to start cleaning you up," Burrows said. "Then we'll see how you're healing. I must say, it's looking very good so far."
"I want Maxine to take a look."
"In a minute," Burrows said. "Just let me—"
"Now," Todd said, nausea fueling his impatience. He raised his hand blindly and pushed at Burrows. The man moved aside. "Maxine?" Todd said.
"I'm here."
Todd beckoned in the direction of Maxine's voice. "Come and look at me, will you? I want you to tell me what I look like."
He heard Maxine's heels on the polished wood floor.
"Hurry." Her step quickened. Now she was close by him. "Well?" he said.
"To be honest, it's hard to tell till he—"
"Christ! I knew it! I fucking knew it! He fucked me up!"
"Wait, wait," Maxine said. "Calm down. A lot of it's just the ointments he put on you. Let him clean it off before we get hysterical." Todd reached out to her. She caught hold of his hand. "It's going to be okay," she said, though her grip was clammy. "Just be patient. Why can't men be patient?"
"You're not patient," he reminded her.
"Just let him work, Todd."
"But you're not. Admit it."
"All right. I'm not patient."
Burrows set to work again, meticulously swabbing around Todd's eyes, cleaning his gummed lashes. The stink of cleaning fluid was sharp in his nostrils, his sinuses ran, and his eyes, when he finally opened them, were awash.
"Welcome back," Maxine said, unknitting her fingers from his, as though a little embarrassed by the intimacy. It took a couple of minutes for Todd's sight to clear, and another two for his eyes to become accustomed to the dimmed light in the room. But part by part, face by face, the world came back to him. The large, half-blinded window, and the rain-lashed deck beyond it. The expensive ease of the room; the Indian rug, the leather furniture, the Calder mobile, in yellow, red and black, which hung below the sky-light. Burrows's knitted brow, and fixed, nervous smile. The nurse, a pretty blonde woman. And finally Maxine, her face ashen. Burrows moved away, like a portrait painter stepping back from a canvas to check the effect he'd achieved.
"I want to see," Todd said to him.
"Give yourself a minute," Maxine said. "Are you still feeling sick?"
"Why? Is it going to make me heave?"
"No," she said. He almost believed her. "You just look a little puffy, that's all. And a little raw. It's not so bad."
"You used to be such a good liar."
"Really," she insisted. "It's not so bad."
"So let me look." Everyone in the room remained still. "Will somebody get me a mirror? Okay—" He started to push himself up out of the chair. "I'll get one myself."
"Stay where you are," Maxine said. "If you really want to see. Nurse? What's your name?"
"Karyn."
"Go up into the bedroom, and you'll find a little hand mirror there on the vanity. Bring it down."
It seemed to Todd the girl took an eternity to fetch the mirror. While they waited, Burrows stared out at the rain. Maxine went to refresh her stinger.
Finally, the girl returned. Her eyes were on Burrows, not on Todd.
"Tell her to give it to me," Todd said.
"Go on," Burrows said.
The nurse put the mirror into Todd's hand. He took a deep breath, and looked at himself.
There was a moment, as his eyes fixed on his reflection, when reality fluttered, and he thought: none of this is real. Not the room, nor the people in it, nor the rain outside, nor the face in the mirror. Especially not the face in the mirror. It was a figment, fluttering and fluttering and—
"Jesus . . ." he said, like Duncan McFarlane, "look at me—"
The strength in his hand failed him, and the mirror dropped to the ground. It fell face down. The nurse stooped to pick it up, but he said: "No. Leave it."
She stepped away from him, and he caught a look of fear in her eyes. What was she afraid of? His voice, was it? Or his face? God help him if it was his face.
"Somebody open the blinds," he said. "Let's get some light in here. It's not a fucking funeral."
Maxine went to the switch, and flipped it. The mechanism hummed; the blind rose, showing him an expanse of rain-soaked deck, some furniture; and beyond the deck the beach. One solitary jogger—probably some famous fool like himself, determined to preserve his beauty even in the pouring rain—was trudging along the shore, followed by two bodyguards. Todd got up from his chair and went to the window. Then, despite the presence of strangers, he laid his hand against the cold glass and began to weep.
FOUR
Burrows had brought both painkillers and tranquilizers that Todd supplemented with a large order from Jerome Bunny, a ratty little Englishman who'd been his supplier of illicit pharmaceuticals for the last four years. Under their influence, Todd spent the next twenty-four hours in a semi-somnambulant state.
The rain was unrelenting. He sat in front of Maxine's immense television screen and watched a succession of images of other people's pain— houses gone, families divided—dreamily wondering if any of them would exchange their misery for his. Every now and then a memory of the visage he'd seen in the mirror—vaguely resembl
ing somebody he'd known, but horribly wounded, filled with pus and blood—would swim up before him, and he'd take another pill, or two or three, and wash it down with a shot of single malt, and wait for the opiates to drive the horror off a little distance.
The new dressings Burrows had put on, though as promised they indeed left his eyes uncovered, were still oppressive, and more than once Todd's hands went up to his face unbidden, and would have ripped the bandages off had he not governed himself in time. He felt grotesque, like something from a late-night horror movie, his face—which had been his glory— become some horrible secret, festering away beneath the bandages. He asked Maxine what movie it was—some Rock Hudson weepie—in which a man was covered up this way. She didn't know.
"And stop thinking about yourself for a while," she said. "Think about something else."
Easily said; the trouble was thinking about himself came naturally to him. In fact, it had become second-nature to him over the years to put all other considerations out of sight: to care only about Todd Pickett, and (on occasion) Dempsey. Not to have done so would have meant a diminution of his power in the world. After all, he'd been playing a game in which only the truly self-obsessed had a chance of victory. All others were bound to fall by the wayside. Now, when it would have been healthier to direct his attention elsewhere, he'd simply lost the knack. And he had no dog by his side to love him for being the boss, whatever the hell he looked like.
Late in the day Maxine came back from her visit to the Hideaway, as she had now dubbed it, with some good news. The house in the hills was just as Jerry Brahms had advertised.
"It's the only house in the canyon," she said.
"Which canyon?"
"I don't even think it's got a name."
"They've all got names, for God's sake."
"All I can tell you is that it's somewhere between Coldwater and Laurel. To be perfectly honest I got a little lost following Jerry up there. He drives like the Devil. And you know my sense of geography."
"Who does the house belong to?"
"Right now it's practically empty. There's some old stuff in there— looks like it goes back to the fifties, maybe earlier—but nothing you'd want to use. I'll have Marco choose some furniture from the Bel Air house and move it over. Get you comfortable. But really it's ideal for what we need right now. By the way, Ms. Bosch has been calling my office. She got quite pushy with Sawyer. She's absolutely certain you're in Hawaii screwing some starlet."