Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

down like a fine champagne.

'You ain't getting away so easy, ugly-boy!' Todd said. 'We're all in this together.'

'Pickett! Let go of me!' Eppstadt demanded. His voice had become shrill with rage, beads of sweat popping out all over his face. 'You hear me? Let me go!'

'When I'm done,' Todd said. He pulled on Eppstadt again, dragging him a few inches closer. 'You miserable fucking shit. How many people have you told to get their faces fixed, huh?'

'You were looking old,' Eppstadt said.

'I was looking old? Ha! Look at you!'

'I'm not a movie star.'

'No, and neither am I. I'm over all that. You know why? I've seen where they go, Eppstadt. All the beautiful people, the stars. I've seen where they end up.'

'Forest Lawn?'

'Oh no. They're not in graves, Eppstadt. That's too easy. They're still out there. The ghosts. Still thinking some fuck like you will give them another chance.'

'Will somebody get this crazy sonofabitch off me?' Eppstadt shrieked.

One of the waiters went down on his haunches in front of the railing, took hold of Todd's hands and started pulling off his fingers one by one. 'You better let go, man,' the waiter quietly warned, 'or I'm going to start hurtin' you. And I don't want to do that.'

Todd ignored him. He simply hauled on Eppstadt, which threw the older man off-balance. The woman Eppstadt had been holding on to also toppled, and would have come down hard had the crowd around her not been so thick. Eppstadt was not so lucky, however. The people in his immediate vicinity had moved away as soon as Todd had caught hold of his leg. Down he went, catching the waiter a blow with his knee as he fell, so that the other man was also sent sprawling.

Todd dragged Eppstadt toward the edge of the patio. There wasn't a single witness to all of this who, knowing Eppstadt, didn't take pleasure in the indignity they saw being visited on the man. People he'd scorned and made to look like fools were now all silently hoping this farce would escalate.

But Eppstadt was made of sterner stuff. He kicked at his attacker, the first blow striking Todd's shoulder, the second hitting his nose and mouth, a brutal blow. Todd let go of Eppstadt and fell back on the sand, blood pouring from both nostrils, like two faucets switched on full power.

Eppstadt scrambled to his feet, yelling: 'I want that man arrested! Right now! Right! Now! '

Todd looked up from his sprawl, his hand going to his face, coming away red. A hundred faces now stared down at him. There wasn't a person at the party—whether bartender, guest, waiter, toilet attendant or valet—who had not forsaken the house to come out and see what all the hubbub was about. They were all staring down at the famous, bloody face on the sand, and the sprawled Eppstadt on the patio. Scandal didn't get much better than this; this was a story to dine out on for years.

A few people had come down onto the sand, on the pretext of helping Todd, perhaps, but actually, of course, to see better what was going on and so have a clearer account for later. Nobody lent Todd a hand; not even Tammy. She had retreated some distance, unwilling to provide these witless fools with something else to laugh at.

Todd scrambled to his feet without help, and instinctively turned his back on his audience. They'd already seen and heard far more than he wanted them to see or hear. All he wanted now was to get away from their snickering assessments.

'Fuck you all . . .' he muttered to himself, wondering which way he should go along the beach, left or right?

And then, straight ahead of him, he had his answer. Standing there at the water-line, watching him, was Katya.

At first he didn't believe it was really her. What was she doing so far from her sanctuary? But if it wasn't her, then who?

He didn't wait for his senses to catch up with what his instinct already knew. Without looking back at the ridiculous circus behind him he stumbled down the beach toward her.

Despite all that Katya had done, all that she was associated with in Todd's mind, her smile was welcome to him now: her madness infinitely preferable to that of Eppstadt and the mob behind him. He was done with them. Forever. This last humiliation was simply the final proof that he did not belong at this party any longer. For better or worse, he belonged in the Canyon, with the woman standing at the water's edge, beckoning to him.

'What are you doing here?' he asked.

She smiled. Oh that smile; still an astonishment!

'What do you think? I came to find you.'

'I thought you'd never leave the Canyon.'

'Sometimes I surprise myself.'

He put his arm around her. An ambitious wave came up around their legs and filled his shoes with cold saltwater. He laughed, snorting through the blood. It spattered her.

'God, I'm sorry. That's gross.'

He went down on his haunches and brought a handful of water up to wash his face, inhaling to cleanse his nostrils. The saltwater stung.

Katya came down to crouch in the surf beside him, her gaze going over his shoulder.

'They're coming down from the house to get you,' she warned.

'Fuck.' He didn't need to glance back to confirm what she was saying. Eppstadt would enjoy what came next, of course: having Todd arrested for assault, hauled up before a judge. It would be headlines tomorrow; and attached to it every detail of what Maxine had proclaimed to her guests. Burrows would be shooed out of hiding, wherever he was, to tell his half of the story; or—if he chose to stand by his Hippocratic oath and remain silent— somebody would invent the details, or a nurse would spill them. However it was verified (as though anything needed verification) the secret was out.

But his story was only part of this. Katya? What about her secret? If they got her into the spotlight as well as Todd, then the mystery of Cold-heart Canyon would become part of tomorrow's headlines. The sanctuary would be violated by police and press; and when they'd gone, by the public.

'I can't bear this,' he said. He was ready to weep, for them both.

She took hold of his hand. 'Then don't,' she said.

She stood up, facing the sea, pulling on his hand so that he stood with her. There were a few lights out there in the ocean, very remote. Otherwise it was completely dark.

'Walk with me,' she said.

She couldn't mean: into the water?

Yes, she did.

She was already walking, and he was following, not because he liked the idea of striding off into the icy, roaring Pacific, but because the alter-native—the mockery of the audience on the shore; all the interrogations that awaited him—was too much to contemplate. He wanted to be away from all that, and if the only direction he could take led him into the ocean, then so be it. He had her hand in his. That was all he needed. For the first time in his life, that was all he needed.

'There are currents . . .' he said.

'I know.'

'And sharks.'

'I'm sure.'

He almost looked back but stopped himself.

'Don't bother,' she said. 'You know what they're doing.'

'Yes . . .'

'Staring at us. Pointing at us.'

'Coming after us?'

'Yes. But not where we're going.'