The Year's Best Horror Stories XXII

A LITTLE-KNOWN SIDE OF ELVIS by Dennis Etchison

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 barrelchested 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-coloured 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 mustache.

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 OK. 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 brains. “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 places 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 any more.”

“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 on to 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. “C.H.U.M.P.—that’s great! 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,” said Madding. “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.”

“How about animal dentistry?” she said.

“Hey, why not?”

“I’ll give them your name.”

“Great,” he said to her. “Thanks!”

“Do you think that’s his collie?” she said when he had gone.

Madding considered. “More likely the Irish setter.”

They saw the man lean down to hook his fingers under the collar of a golden retriever. From the back, his baseball cap revealed the emblem of the New York Yankees. Not from around here, Madding thought. But then, who is?

“Close,” she said, and laughed.

The man led his dog past a dirt mound, where there was a drinking fountain, and a spigot that ran water into a trough for the animals.

“Water,” she said. “That’s a good idea. Greta!”

The kelpie came bounding over, eager to escape the attentions of a randy pit bull. They led her to the mound. As Greta drank, Madding read the sign over the spigot:

“What do you think that means?” she said. “It isn’t true, is it?”

Madding felt a tightness in his chest. “It could be. This is still wild country.”

“Greta, stay with me…”

“Don’t worry. They only come out at night, probably.”

“Where’s your dog?” she said.

“I wish I knew.”

She tilted her head, uncertain whether or not he was making another joke.

“He ran away,” Madding told her.

“When?”

“Last month. I used to bring him here all the time. One day he didn’t come when I called. It got dark, and they closed the park, but he never came back.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“Yeah, me too.”

“What was his name?”

“He didn’t have one. I couldn’t make up my mind, and then it was too late.”

They walked on between the trees. She kept a close eye on Greta. Somewhere music was playing. The honey-colored cocker spaniel led the German shepherd, the Irish setter and a dalmatian to a redwood table. There the cocker’s owner, a woman with brassy hair and a sagging green halter, poured white wine into plastic cups for several men.

“I didn’t know,” said Stacey.

“I missed him at first, but now I figure he’s better off. Someplace where he can run free, all the time.”

“I’m sorry about your dog,” she said. “That’s so sad. But what I meant was, I didn’t know you were famous.”

It was hard to believe that she knew the book. The odds against it were staggering, particularly considering the paltry royalties. He decided not to ask what she thought of it. That would be pressing his luck.

“Who’s famous? I sold a novel. Big deal.”

“Well, at least you’re a real writer. I envy you.”

“Why?”

“You have it made.”

Sure I do, thought Madding. One decent review in the Village Voice Literary Supplement, and some reader at a production company makes an inquiry, and the next thing I know my agent makes a deal with all the money in the world at the top of the ladder. Only the ladder doesn’t go far enough. And now I’m back to square one, the option money used up, with a screenplay written on spec that’s not worth what it cost me to Xerox it, and I’m six months behind on the next novel. But I’ve got it made. Just ask the IRS.

The music grew louder as they walked. It seemed to be coming from somewhere overhead. Madding gazed up into the trees, where the late-afternoon rays sparkled through the leaves, gold coins edged in blackness. He thought he heard voices, too, and the clink of glasses. Was there a party? The entire expanse of the park was visible from here, but he could see no evidence of a large group anywhere. The sounds were diffused and unlocalized, as if played back through widely spaced, out-of-phase speakers.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“What?”

“You said you don’t live here any more.”

“In Calistoga.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up north.”

“Oh.”

He began to relax. He was glad to be finished with this town.

“I closed out my lease today,” he told her. “Everything’s packed. As soon as I hit the road, I’m out of here.”

“Why did you come back to the park?”

A good question, he thought. He hadn’t planned to stop by. It was a last-minute impulse.

“I’m not sure,” he said. No, that wasn’t true. He might as well admit it. “It sounds crazy, but I guess I wanted to look for my dog. I thought I’d give it one more chance. It doesn’t feel right, leaving him.”

“Do you think he’s still here?”

He felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach. It was not a good feeling. I shouldn’t have come, he thought. Then I wouldn’t have had to face it. It’s dangerous here, too dangerous for there to be much hope.

“At least I’ll know,” he said.

He heard a sudden intake of breath and turned to her. There were tears in her eyes, as clear as diamonds.

“It’s like the end of your book,” she said. “When the little girl is alone, and doesn’t know what’s going to happen next…”

My God, he thought, she did read it He felt flattered, but kept his ego in check. She’s not so tough She has a heart, after all, under all the bravado. That’s worth something—it’s worth a lot. I hope she makes it, the Elvis script, whatever she really wants. She deserves it.

She composed herself and looked around, blinking. “What is that?”

“What’s what?”

“Don’t you hear it?” She raised her chin and moved her head from side to side, eyes closed.

She meant the music, the glasses, the sound of the party that wasn’t there. “I don’t know.”

Now there was the scraping of steel somewhere behind them, like a rough blade drawn through metal. He stopped and turned around quickly.

A couple of hundred yards away, at the top of the slope, a man in a uniform opened the gate to the park. Beyond the fence, a second man climbed out of an idling car with a red, white, and blue shield on the door. He had a heavy chain in one hand.

“Come on,” said Madding. “It’s time to go.”

“It can’t be.”

“The security guards are here. They close the park at six.”

“Already?”

Madding was surprised, too. He wondered how long they had been walking. He saw the man with the crewcut searching for his Frisbee in the grass, the bull terrier at his side. The group on the bench and the woman in the halter were collecting their things. The bodybuilder marched his two ribboned Pekingese to the slope. The Beverly Hills dentist whistled and stood waiting for his dog to come to him. Madding snapped to, as if waking up. It really was time.

The sun had dropped behind the hills and the grass under his feet was darkening. The car in the parking lot above continued to idle; the rumbling of the engine reverberated in the natural bowl of the park, as though close enough to bulldoze them out of the way. He heard a rhythm in the throbbing, and realized that it was music, after all.

They had wandered close to the edge, where the park ended and the gorge began. Over the gorge, the deck of one of the cantilevered houses beat like a drum.

“Where’s Greta?” she said.

He saw the stark expression, the tendons outlined through the smooth skin of her throat.

“Here, girl! Over here…!”

She called out, expecting to see her dog. Then she clapped her hands together. The sound bounced back like the echo of a gunshot from the depths of the canyon. The dog did not come.

In the parking lot, the second security guard let a Doberman out of the car. It was a sleek, black streak next to him as he carried the heavy chain to his partner, who was waiting for the park to empty before padlocking the gate.

Madding took her arm. Her skin was covered with gooseflesh. She drew away.

“I can’t go,” she said. “I have to find Greta.”

He scanned the grassy slopes with her, avoiding the gorge until there was nowhere left to look. It was blacker than he remembered. Misshapen bushes and stunted shrubs filled the canyon below, extending all the way down to the formal boundaries of the city. He remembered standing here only a few weeks ago, in exactly the same position. He had told himself then that his dog could not have gone over the edge, but now he saw that there was nowhere else to go.

The breeze became a wind in the canyon and the black liquid eye of a swimming pool winked at him from far down the hillside. Above, the sound of the music stopped abruptly.

“You don’t think she went down there, do you?” said Stacey. There was a catch in her voice. “The mountain lions…”

“They only come out at night.”

“But it is night!”

They heard a high, broken keening.

“Listen!” she said. “That’s Greta!”

“No, it’s not. Dogs don’t make that sound. It’s—” He stopped himself.

“What?”

“Coyotes.”

He regretted saying it.

Now, without the music, the shuffling of footsteps on the boards was clear and unmistakable. He glanced up. Shadows appeared over the edge of the deck as a line of heads gathered to look down. Ice cubes rattled and someone laughed. Then someone else made a shushing sound and the silhouetted heads bobbed silently, listening and watching.

Can they see us? he wondered.

Madding felt the presence of the Doberman behind him, at the top of the slope. How long would it take to close the distance, once the guards set it loose to clear the park? Surely they would call out a warning first. He waited for the voice, as the sounds ticked by on his watch.

“I have to go get her,” she said, starting for the gorge.

“No…”

“I can’t just leave her.”

“It’s not safe,” he said.

“But she’s down there, I know it! Greta!”

There was a giggling from the deck.

They can hear us, too, he thought. Every sound, every word magnified, like a Greek amphitheater. Or a Roman one.

Rover, Spot, Towser? No, Cubby. That’s what I was going to call you, if there had been time. I always liked the name. Cubby.

He made a decision.

“Stay here,” he said, pushing her aside.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going over.”

“You don’t have to. It’s my dog…”

“Mine, too.”

Maybe they’re both down there, he thought.

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

“No.”

He stood there, thinking. It all comes down to this. There’s no way to avoid it. There never was.

“But you don’t know what’s there…!”

“Go,” he said to her, without turning around. “Get out of here while you can. There’s still time.”

Go home, he thought, wherever that is. You have a life ahead of you. It’s not too late, if you go right now, without looking back.

“Wait…!”

He disappeared over the edge.

A moment later there was a new sound, something more than the breaking of branches and the thrashing. It was powerful and deep, followed immediately by a high, mournful yipping. Then there was only silence, and the night.

From above the gorge, a series of quick, hard claps fell like rain.

It was the people on the deck.

They were applauding.