Flat markers stippled the low luminous hills in meandering ranks, like stepping-stones, and some graves were bordered with ankle-high sections of scalloped pink concrete, and the interior space of these was consistently filled with broken white stones; a few, the graves of little children, had plastic dinosaurs and toy cars and miniature soldiers set up on the stones to make pitiful dioramas.
Mausoleums like ornate WPA powerhouse relay stations stood along the dirt road ahead of them, and the brassy sunlight shone on the wingless eagle atop the Harrison Gray Otis monument; Sullivan was sure that the eagle had had wings in 1959. The cypresses around them rustled in the gentle breeze and threw down dry leaves.
Sullivan and Elizalde had by now wandered into a marshy area, back by the corrugated-aluminum walls and broken windows of the Paramount buildings, that seemed to be all babies’ graves, the markers sunken and blurred with silt.
Houdini’s maimed hand was shaking in Elizalde’s fists. “We’ve passed those ghosts,” she whispered. “Let’s get to the lake.”
At that moment a wailing laugh erupted from somewhere far off among the trees and gravestones behind them. Elizalde’s free hand was cold and tight in Sullivan’s.
They hurried back to the dirt road, and over it, onto a descending slope of shadowed grass. Ahead of them was a long lake, with stone stairs at the north end and, at the south end, tall white pillars and a marble pedestal rising out of the dark water. A white sarcophagus lay on the pedestal.
“Douglas Fairbanks, Senior,” panted Sullivan as he and Elizalde hurried along the marge of the narrow lake.
Human shapes made out of dried leaves were dancing silently in the shadows of the stairs, and curled sections of dry palm fronds swam and bobbed their fibrous necks out on the dark face of the water.
“Just up the hill and across the next road,” Sullivan said, “is the other lake, the one my father—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, and just pulled her along.
NICHOLAS BRADSHAW had been standing for several minutes, watching Kootie breathe in his sleep as he lay curled on the wooden floor, before he crouched and shook the boy’s shoulder.
The boy’s eyes opened, but Bradshaw was sure that the alert, cautious intelligence in the gaze was Thomas Edison’s.
“A car went by twice,” said Bradshaw, “slow. I don’t think it was bad guys—but it did make me think you’d be—safer back in the office.”
Kootie got lithely to his feet and glanced at the blinds, which glowed orange around the slats. “They’re not back yet.”
“No,” said Bradshaw. The empty living room echoed hollowly, and he didn’t like to talk in here.
“The boy’s asleep,” said Kootie. “I suppose I can be out in the air for a few minutes—your place does seem to be a deceptive one for trackers to focus on.”
“I’ve tried to make it so,” said Bradshaw, opening the door. “And it helps that I’m a dead man.”
“I reckon,” said Kootie, following him outside.
Parrots fluttered past overhead, shouting raucously, and the mockingbirds on the telephone lines had learned the two-note chirrup that car alarms emitted when they were activated by the key-ring remotes, and which always sounded to Bradshaw like the first two notes of the “Colonel Bogie March.”
Bradshaw was remembering the early days of working on “Ghost of a Chance,” in ‘55 and ‘56. CBS had filmed the show’s episodes on a couple of boxy sets on a soundstage at General Service Studios, and in spite of the depth-and-texture look that Ozzie Nelson had pioneered for “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet,” the director at General Service had held to the old flat look of early television—bright lighting with minimal shadow and background.
During the show’s tightly scheduled first two years, Nicky Bradshaw had seemed to spend most of his waking hours on those sets, and it had been a deepening and expanding of his whole world when CBS had given the job of filming the show to Stage 5 Productions in 1957. The Stage 5 director had used a series of sets that had been built for Hitchcock’s “The Trouble with Harry”, and often filmed scenes at local parks, and occasionally at the beach.
His world had gone flat again when the show was finally canceled in 1960, a year after his godfather’s death. (He hurried Kootie toward the office—he must do this thing before his godfather’s ghost arrived.) And then it had flattened to the equivalent of sketchy animation in a flip-book after his own death in 1975.
Most of all—more than sex, more than food—he missed dreams. He had not allowed himself to sleep at all in the last seventeen years, for if he were to have a frightening dream while he wasn’t consciously monitoring the workings of his dead body, he wouldn’t be able to wake himself up—and the inescapable trauma would surely be strong enough to cause him to throw ghost-shells in his fright…and, since he had continued occupying his body past the end of his lifeline, the ghosts would have no charged line to arc back to.
They would collide, collapse into jarring interference, implode in fearful spiraling feedback.
He knew of several cases in which a person had suffered a profound trauma only a few moments after unacknowledged death, and had burst into flames. Bradshaw had accumulated seventeen years.
But he could still remember laying his weary body down and closing his eyes and letting sleep take him, remember awakening in darkness and seeing by a luminous clock face that there were hours yet to sleep, remember drifting to wakefulness on sunny mornings with the images of dreams still dissolving before his eyes as he stretched and threw back the covers.
After seventeen years, he wasn’t sure he remembered what dreams were, any more than he really remembered what the sensations of taste had been like. Dreams had been…visions, it seemed to him now, like vivid daydreams over which one had little or no control; scary sometimes, it was true—but also, as he recalled, sometimes achingly erotic, sometimes luminous with a wrenching beauty that seemed to hint of some actual heaven somewhere. And in dreams he had been able to talk and laugh again with people he’d loved who had died.
His hand was on Kootie’s bony shoulder, propelling the boy toward the main building.
When they had both stepped up into the dark office, Bradshaw ducked into the kitchen to fetch Elizalde’s pint bottle of tequila, which was still more than half full.
“You’re how old?” he asked gruffly.
“Eighty-four,” said Kootie.
“Old enough to have a drink.” Bradshaw actually took an involuntary breath, “if you’d like one.”
“A shot won’t hurt the boy,” assented Kootie. “It seems I’ve acquired a taste for the stuff, since my expiration.”
You ghosts always do, thought Bradshaw as he poured a liberal slosh of the yellow liquor into a Flintstones glass.
“You’re not going to have any?” asked Kootie alertly.
“Oh,” said Bradshaw, “sure. I’ve just got to find a cup for myself.” On a bookshelf he found one of the coffee cups from which he’d been drinking his Eat-’Em-&Weep Balls tea, and he poured an ounce of tequila in on top of the red stickiness.
Kootie raised his glass, but waited until Bradshaw had tipped up his coffee cup and taken a mouthful of the tequila.
What do I do now, thought Bradshaw—swallow it?
He glanced up at Kootie, who hadn’t even taken a sip yet. Bradshaw sighed and swallowed, feeling the volatile coldness in his throat and trying to remember what tequila tasted like. Pepper and turpentine, as far as he could recall.
That will do, he thought. I suppose that stuff will just sit in my stomach until it…evaporates? Soaks into my dead tissues like a marinade? For the next day or two, he thought seriously, I’ll have to be careful about burping around any open flame.