Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

to his face. The bandages were tight and smooth, like a visor over his head, sealing him in. He started to hyperventilate. He was going to die in here, if he didn't get this smothering stuff off his face. He began to claw at the bandages. He needed air. Right now!

Air, for Christ's sake, air—

'Mister Pickett, don't do that! Please!'

The nurse caught hold of Todd's hands, but the panic and the pain made him strong and she couldn't prevent him from digging his fingers beneath the bandages and pulling.

There were flashes of light in his head, but he knew it wasn't the light of the outside world he was seeing. His brain was overloading; fear was leaping like lightning across his skull. His blood roared in his ears. His body thrashed around in the bed as though he were in the grip of a seizure.

'All right, nurse. I've got him now.'

Suddenly, there were hands around his wrists. Somebody stronger than the nurse was gently but insistently pulling his fingers away from his face. Then a voice came to find him through the sound of his own sobs.

'Todd? This is Doctor Burrows. Everything is fine. But please calm down. Let me explain what's going on. There's nothing to worry about.' He spoke like a hypnotist, the cadence of his sentences even, his voice completely calm. And while he went on speaking, repeating the same information—that everything was fine, all Todd had to do was breathe deeply, deeply—he held Todd's arms against the bed.

After a few moments, the bright bursts of light began to become less frequent. The din of blood began to recede. So, by degrees, did the waves of panic.

'There,' Doctor Burrows said, when the worst of it was over. 'You see? Everything's fine and dandy. Now why don't we get you a fresh pillow? Nurse Karyn? Would you please get Mister Pickett a nice fresh pillow?'

Oh so gently, Burrows raised the upper half of Todd's body off the bed, talking to him all the while: the same calming monologue. All the strength to resist, indeed all need to do so, had gone out of Todd. All he could do was abandon himself to Burrows's care.

Finally he said: 'What's . . . wrong . . . with me?'

'First let's get you comfortable,' Burrows replied. 'Then we'll talk it all through.'

Todd felt the motion of the nurse as she slipped the fresh pillow into place behind him. Then, with the same tenderness as he used to lift him up, Burrows carefully lowered Todd back down upon the pillow.

'There. Isn't that better?' Burrows said, finally letting his patient go. Todd felt a pang of separation, like a child who'd been abruptly deserted.

'I'm going to let you rest for a while,' Burrows went on. 'And when you've slept, we'll talk properly.'

'No . . .' Todd said.

'Your brother Donald's here with you.'

'I'm here, Todd.'

'I want to talk now,' Todd said. 'Not later. Now. Donnie! Make him stay.'

'It's okay, Kiddo,' Donnie said with just the right edge of threat, 'Doctor B.'s not goin' anywhere. Answer his question, Doc.'

'Well, first things first,' Burrows said. 'There's absolutely nothing wrong with your eyes, if that's what you're worried about. We just have to keep the dressings in place around your eye-sockets.'

'You didn't tell me I'd be waking up in the dark,' Todd said.

'No . . .' Burrows replied. 'That's because the procedure didn't go quite as we planned. But every operation is a little different, as you'll remember I explained to you. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke . . .'

Now that he was calmer, Todd began to recall some of the things about Burrows that had irritated him. One of them was that voice of his: that fake basso profundo that was a practiced attempt to conceal his queeniness, and to match his voice to the heroic proportions of his body. An artificial body, of course. The man was a walking advertisement for his craft. He was fifty-five at least, but he had the skin of a baby, the arms and the chest of a body-builder and the wasp-waist of a showgirl.

'Just tell me the truth,' Todd said to him. 'Did something go wrong? I'm a big boy. I can take it.'

There was a pin-drop silence. Todd waited. Finally, Burrows said: 'We had a few minor complications with your procedure, that's all. I've explained it all to your brother Donald. There's nothing—absolutely nothing—for you to be concerned about. It's just going to take a little more time than we'd—'

'What kind of complications?'

'We don't need to go into that now, Todd.'

'Yes, we do,' Todd said. 'It's my face, for fuck's sake. Tell me what's going on. And don't screw around with me. I don't like it.'

'Tell him, Doc,' Donnie said, quietly but firmly.

Todd heard Burrows sigh. Then that studied voice again: 'You'll remember that during the preparation evaluation I did warn you that on occasion there were reactions to chemical peels which could not be predicted. And I'm afraid that's what happened in your case. You've had an extreme, and as I say completely unpredictable, allergic response to the peel. I don't believe for one moment there's going to be any significant damage in the long term. You're a healthy young man. We're going to see some swift epidermal regeneration—'

'What the fuck's that?'

'Your skin's gonna grow back,' Donnie replied, his Texan drawl turning the remark into a piece of cold comedy.

'What do you mean?' Todd said.

'The effect of the procedure we use—as I explained in our evaluation, and is fully described in the literature I gave you—'

'I didn't read it,' Todd said. 'I trusted you.'

'—the procedures we use may be likened to a very controlled chemical burn, which produces changes in the dermis and the epidermis. Damaged or blemished skin is removed, and after forty-eight hours at the most, new, healthy skin is naturally generated, which has pleasing characteristics. The client regains a youthful—'

This time it was Donnie who interrupted Burrows's molassic flow. 'Tell him the rest,' Donnie said, his voice thick with anger. 'If you don't tell him, I will,' Donnie went on. He didn't give Burrows a chance to make the choice. 'You've been out of it since you had the operation, Kiddo. In a coma. For three days. That's why they sent for me. They were getting worried. I tried to have you moved to a proper hospital, but that bitch of a manager—Maxine, is it?—she wouldn't let me. She said you'd want to stay here. Said she was afraid the press would find out if you were transferred.'

'We're perfectly capable of looking after Mister Pickett here,' Burrows said. 'There isn't a hospital in California that could give him better care.'

'Yeah, well, maybe,' Donnie said. 'Seems to me he'd still be better off in Cedars-Sinai.'

'I really resent the implication—' Burrows began.

'Will you just shut the fuck up?' Donnie said wearily. 'I don't give a monkey's ass what you resent. All I care about is getting my brother properly fixed up and out of here.'

'And as I say—'

'Yeah. As you say. Tell you what, why don't you and Nurse Karyn there step out for a few minutes and let me have a private word with my brother?'

Burrows didn't attempt any further self-justification, and Todd knew why. He could imagine Donnie's expression in perfect detail: both brothers got color in their faces when they were riled up; and a cold eye. Burrows duly retreated, which was the wisest thing he could have done.

'I want to get you out of here, Kiddo,' Donnie said as soon as they had gone. 'I don't trust these people as far as I could throw 'em. They're full of shit.'

'I need to talk to Maxine before we do anything.'

'What the fuck for? I don't trust her any more than I trust these sons of bitches.'

There was a long silence. Todd knew what was coming next; so he just waited for it.

'Just so you know,' Donnie said, 'you've done some damn-fool things in your life, but this whole deal is the