The Death Artist Read online

  THE DEATH ARTIST

  By Dennis Etchison

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2014 by Dennis Etchison

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  DENNIS ETCHISON's stories have appeared in magazines and anthologies since 1961. He is a three-time winner of both the British Fantasy Award and the World Fantasy Award and served as President of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) from 1992 to 1994. His books include the collections The Dark Country, Red Dreams, The Blood Kiss, The Death Artist, Talking in the Dark, Fine Cuts and Got To Kill Them All & Other Stories, the novels Darkside, Shadowman and California Gothic and the anthologies Cutting Edge, Masters of Darkness I-III, MetaHorror, The Museum of Horrors and (with Jack Dann and Ramsey Campbell) Gathering the Bones. He has also written hundreds of scripts for The Twilight Zone Radio Dramas, Fangoria Magazine's Dread Time Stories and Christopher Lee's Mystery Theater. Current projects are a career retrospective from S.T. Joshi's Masters of the Weird Tale series (Centipede Press) and a volume of new short stories.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  "The Dog Park" copyright © 1993 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Dark Voices 4: The Pan Book of Horror, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.

  "The Last Reel" copyright © 1997 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Dark Terrors 3: The Gollancz Book of Horror, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.

  "When They Gave Us Memory" copyright © 1991 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Final Shadows, edited by Charles L. Grant.

  "On Call" copyright © 1980 by Paul C. Allen. First published in Fantasy Newsletter.

  "Deadtime Story" copyright © 1986 by TZ Publications. First published in Night Cry Magazine. Also included in the first edition of the novel Darkside, published by Berkley Charter Books, copyright © 1986 by Dennis Etchison.

  "Call Home" copyright © 1991 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Psycho-Paths, edited by Robert Bloch.

  "No One You Know" copyright © 1997 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Rage Magazine.

  "A Wind From the South" copyright © 1994 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Borderlands 4, edited by Elizabeth E. Monteleone and Thomas E Monteleone, and in the novel California Gothic, copyright © 1995 by Dennis Etchison.

  "The Scar" copyright © 1988 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Lord John Ten.

  "The Detailer" copyright © 2000 by Dennis Etchison.

  "The Dead Cop" copyright © 1996 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Dark Terrors 2: The Gollancz Book of Horror, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton.

  "Inside the Cackle Factory" copyright © 1998 by Dennis Etchison. First published in Dark Terrors 4: The Gollancz Book of Horror, edited by Stephen Jones and David Sutton. The sitcom Dario, You So Crazy! described in this story was conceived in collaboration with Peter Atkins.

  To Theodore Sturgeon

  THE DEATH ARTIST

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE DOG PARK

  THE LAST REEL

  WHEN THEY GAVE US MEMORY

  ON CALL

  DEADTIME STORY

  CALL HOME

  NO ONE YOU KNOW

  A WIND FROM THE SOUTH

  THE SCAR

  THE DETAILER

  THE DEAD COP

  INSIDE THE CACKLE FACTORY

  You have seen him but you did not recognize him. When he passed you on the street you would not look his way. He stood with you in the line and took a seat as the lights went down but when you heard his footsteps later, going home, you told yourself he was not there. He is the one who sent the letter, the one on the telephone who never speaks, the one who waits behind the door. He stops for every accident and never turns away from the chalk marks and the blood, for there is a lifemap in each dying and if he does not see it all his portraits will not be true. He wants to pass it on, the laughter and the cry in the night, so much the same at the end. It is not a hobby or a diversion. It is a method and an esthetic and a religion. He does not seek to convert you. He only wants you to know. He thinks you are ready. He is an artist and his subject is the high and the low rather than what lies between. You do not have to find him. He has already found you.

  THE DOG PARK

  Madding heard the dogs before he saw them.

  They were snarling at each other through the hurricane fence, gums wet and incisors bared, as if about to snap the chain links that held them apart. A barrel-chested boxer reared and slobbered, driving a much smaller Australian kelpie away from the outside of the gate. Spittle flew and the links vibrated and rang.

  A few seconds later their owners came running, barking commands and waving leashes like whips.

  "Easy, boy," Madding said, reaching one hand out to the seat next to him. Then he remembered that he no longer had a dog of his own. There was nothing to worry about.

  He set the brake, rolled the window up all the way, locked the car and walked across the lot to the park.

  The boxer was far down the slope by now, pulled along by a man in a flowered shirt and pleated trousers. The Australian sheepdog still trembled by the fence. Its owner, a young woman, jerked a choke chain.

  "Greta, sit!"

  As Madding neared the gate, the dog growled and tried to stand.

  She yanked the chain harder and slapped its hindquarters back into position.

  "Hello, Greta," said Madding, lifting the steel latch. He smiled at the young woman. "You've got a brave little dog there."

  "I don't know why she's acting this way," she said, embarrassed.

  "Is this her first time?"

  "Pardon?"

  "At the Dog Park."

  "Yes…"

  "It takes some getting used to," he told her. "All the freedom. They're not sure how to behave."

  "Did you have the same trouble?"

  "Of course." He savored the memory, and at the same time wanted to put it out of his mind. "Everybody does. It's normal."

  "I named her after Garbo—you know, the actress? I don't think she likes crowds." She looked
around. "Where's your dog?"

  "Down there, I hope." Madding opened the gate and let himself in, then held it wide for her.

  She was squinting at him. "Excuse me," she said, "but you work at Tri-Mark, don't you?"

  Madding shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

  The kelpie dragged her down the slope with such force that she had to dig her feet into the grass to stop. The boxer was nowhere in sight.

  "Greta, heel!"

  "You can let her go," Madding said as he came down behind her. "The leash law is only till three o'clock."

  "What time is it now?"

  He checked his watch. "Almost five."

  She bent over and unfastened the leash from the ring on the dog's collar. She was wearing white cotton shorts and a plain, loose-fitting top.

  "Did I meet you in Joel Silver's office?" she said.

  "I don't think so." He smiled again. "Well, you and Greta have fun."

  He wandered off, tilting his face back and breathing deeply. The air was moving, scrubbed clean by the trees, rustling the shiny leaves as it circulated above the city, exchanging pollutants for fresh oxygen. It was easier to be on his own, but without a dog to pick the direction he was at loose ends. He felt the loss tugging at him like a cord that had not yet been broken.

  The park was only a couple of acres, nestled between the high, winding turns of a mountain road on one side and a densely overgrown canyon on the other. This was the only park where dogs were allowed to run free, at least during certain hours, and in a few short months it had become an unofficial meeting place for people in the entertainment industry. Where once pitches had been delivered in detox clinics and the gourmet aisles of Westside supermarkets, now ambitious hustlers frequented the Dog Park to sharpen their networking skills. Here starlets connected with recently divorced producers, agents jockeyed for favor with young executives on the come, and actors and screenwriters exchanged tips about veterinarians, casting calls and pilots set to go to series in the fall. All it took was a dog, begged, borrowed or stolen, and the kind of desperate gregariousness that causes one to press business cards into the hands of absolute strangers.

  He saw dozens of dogs, expensive breeds mingling shamelessly with common mutts, a microcosm of democracy at work. An English setter sniffed an unshorn French poodle, then gave up and joined the pack gathered around a honey-colored cocker spaniel. A pair of black Great Dane puppies tumbled over each other golliwog-style, coming to rest at the feet of a tall, humorless German shepherd. An Afghan chased a Russian wolfhound. And there were the masters, posed against tree trunks, lounging at picnic tables, nervously cleaning up after their pets with long-handled scoopers while they waited to see who would enter the park next.

  Madding played a game, trying to match up the animals with their owners. A man with a crewcut tossed a Frisbee, banking it against the setting sun like a translucent UFO before a bull terrier snatched it out of the air. Two fluffed Pekingese waddled across the path in front of Madding, trailing colorful leashes; when they neared the gorge at the edge of the park he started after them reflexively, then stopped as a short, piercing sound turned them and brought them back this way. A bodybuilder in a formfitting T-shirt glowered nearby, a silver whistle showing under his trimmed moustache.

  Ahead, a Labrador, a chow and a schnauzer had a silkie cornered by a trash bin. Three people seated on a wooden bench glanced up, laughed, and returned to the curled script they were reading. Madding could not see the title, only that the cover was a bilious yellow-green.

  "I know," said the young woman, drawing even with him, as her dog dashed off in an ever-widening circle. "It was at New Line. That was you, wasn't it?"

  "I've never been to New Line," said Madding.

  "Are you sure? The office on Robertson?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Oh." She was embarrassed once again, and tried to cover it with a self-conscious cheerfulness, the mark of a private person forced into playing the extrovert in order to survive. "You're not an actor, then?"

  "Only a writer," said Madding.

  She brightened. "I knew it!"

  "Isn't everyone in this town?" he said. "The butcher, the baker, the kid who parks your car...My drycleaner says he's writing a script for Tim Burton."

  "Really?" she said, quite seriously. "I'm writing a spec script.

  Oh no, he thought. He wanted to sink down into the grass and disappear among the ants and beetles, but the ground was damp from the sprinklers and her dog was circling, hemming him in.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "That's okay. I have a real job, too. I'm on staff at Fox Network."

  "What show?" he asked, to be polite.

  "C.H.U.M.P. The first episode is on next week. They've already ordered nine more, in case Don't Worry, Be Happy gets canceled."

  "I've heard of it," he said.

  "Have you? What have you heard?"

  He racked his brain. "It's a cop series, right?"

  "Canine-Human Unit, Metropolitan Police. You know, dogs that ride around in police cars, and the men and women they sacrifice themselves for? It has a lot of human interest, like L.A. Law, only it's told through the dogs' eyes."

  "Look Who's Barking," he said.

  "Sort of." She tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was a joke, wasn't it?"

  "Sort of"

  "I get it." She went on. "But what I really want to write is Movies-of-the-Week. My agent says she'll put my script on Paul Nagle's desk, as soon as I have a first draft."

  "What's it about?"

  "It's called A Little-Known Side of Elvis. That's the working title. My agent says anything about Elvis will sell."

  "Which side of Elvis is this one?"

  "Well, for example, did you know about his relationships with dogs? Most people don't. Hound Dog wasn't just a song."

  Her kelpie began to bark. A man with inflatable tennis shoes and a baseball cap worn backwards approached them, a clipboard in his hand.

  "Hi!" he said, all teeth. "Would you take a minute to sign our petition?"

  "No problem," said the young woman. "What's it for?"

  "They're trying to close the park to outsiders, except on weekends."

  She took his ballpoint pen and balanced the clipboard on her tanned forearm. "How come?"

  "It's the residents. They say we take up too many parking spaces on Mulholland. They want to keep the canyon for themselves."

  "Well," she said, "they better watch out, or we might just start leaving our dogs here. Then they'll multiply and take over!"

  She grinned, her capped front teeth shining in the sunlight like two chips of paint from a pearly-white Lexus.

  "What residents?" asked Madding.

  "The homeowners," said the man in the baseball cap, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

  Madding's eyes followed a line to the cliffs overlooking the park, where the cantilevered back-ends of several designer houses hung suspended above the gorge. The undersides of the decks, weathered and faded, were almost camouflaged by the weeds and chaparral.

  "How about you?" The man took back the clipboard and held it out to Madding. "We need all the help we can get."

  "I'm not a registered voter," said Madding.

  "You're not?"

  "I don't live here," he said. "I mean, I did, but I don't now. Not anymore."

  "Are you registered?" the man asked her.

  "Yes."

  "In the business?"

  "I work at Fox," she said.

  "Oh, yeah? How's the new regime? I hear Lili put all the old-timers out to pasture."

  "Not the studio," she said. "The network."

  "Really? Do you know Kathryn Baker, by any chance?"

  "I've seen her parking space. Why?"

  "I used to be her dentist." The man took out his wallet. "Here, let me give you my card."

  "That's all right," she said. "I already have someone."

  "Well, hold onto it anyway. You never know
. Do you have a card?"

  She reached into a Velcro pouch at her waist and handed him a card with a quill pen embossed on one corner.

  The man read it. "'CH.U.MP.'—that'sgreat! Do you have a dental adviser yet?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Could you find out?"

  "I suppose."

  He turned to Madding. "Are you an actor?"

  "Writer. But not the kind you mean."

  The man was puzzled. The young woman looked at him blankly. Madding felt the need to explain himself.

  "I had a novel published, and somebody bought an option. I moved down here to write the screenplay."

  "Title?" said the man.

  "You've probably never heard of it," said Madding. "It was called And Soon the Night."

  "That's it!" she said. "I just finished reading it—I saw your picture on the back of the book!" She furrowed her brow, a slight dimple appearing on the perfectly smooth skin between her eyes, as she struggled to remember. "Don't tell me. Your name is…"

  "David Madding," he said, holding out his hand.

  "Hi!" she said. "I'm Stacey Chernak."

  "Hi, yourself."

  "Do you have a card?" the man said to him.

  "I'm all out," said Madding. It wasn't exactly a lie. He had never bothered to have any printed.

  "What's the start date?"

  "There isn't one," said Madding. "They didn't renew the option."

  "I see," said the man in the baseball cap, losing interest.

  A daisy chain of small dogs ran by, a miniature collie chasing a longhaired dachshund chasing a shivering Chihuahua. The collie blurred as it went past, its long coat streaking like a flame.

  "Well, I gotta get some more signatures before dark. Don't forget to call me," the man said to her. "I can advise on orthodontics, accident reconstruction, anything they want."