Nine

Among the backyard rosebushes, Max dug a grave with the gardener's shovel.

Then he'd sleep at last. Yes, he'd sleep like the dead.

The California sun beat down on him with an almost physical force. The heat soaked into his pale flesh. Colors sparked in his vision. He was no stranger to manual labor. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty. But aside from some catnapping he hadn't really slept since the premiere, and he wasn't a young man anymore.

How fitting it'd be to topple over into the deep hole he'd dug, dead of a heart attack like his dad. A fitting end. And possibly deserved for playing with taboo.

Instead, Max took a break. He leaned on his shovel and inspected the hole.

In the dark pit, he saw death.

Last night:

He'd aimed the Arriflex 35BL down the hall, across the foyer, and straight at the front door. A fresh roll in the magazine. The door unlocked and ready to open. The camera ready to shoot.

"It's not me," he murmured again behind the viewfinder. "It's the camera, and cameras aren't possessed by demons. Accidents happen."

And sometimes they happened to people who wanted to enslave him to make formulaic crowd-pleasers instead of pursuing his life's purpose.

He made a few zoom and pan adjustments to fix the door in frame. He worked the focus just so. Arthur Golden said nothing, knowing better than to interrupt a fellow creative while he was working.

Lady Susan proudly strutted into view with Roger Ebert in her jaws.

Max gasped. "No, Suse!"

Heart galloping on pure adrenaline, he jerked the camera in a quick pan.

At his tone, the Pomeranian tilted her head.

"Daddy's working," Max explained as he reached for the squeaky giraffe toy gripped in her clenched teeth. "I'm going to put you in the—"

Susan growled and backed away from him.

"I can't play with you right now, Lady Susan."

The puffy dog wagged her head. Snarling and chomping on the rubber toy, challenging him to take her rightful kill if he proved strong enough. He grabbed it and tugged hard, but she clamped down even harder.

"Come. On." He growled back at her. "It's. Just. For. A few. Minutes—"

Susan dug in her paws and refused to be budged.

Max sighed. "Then you give me no choice."

He crossed into the adjacent kitchen and retrieved a box of Milk-Bone biscuits from its cupboard. He shook it.

"Who wants a treat?"

Susan padded over, dropped the toy, and panted happily at him. The moment the biscuit hit the floor, she scarfed it down.

Taking advantage of her distraction, Max attached her leash to her collar and knotted the other end around the refrigerator handle. He tested the knot.

"Now, stay," he commanded. "Daddy won't be long."

The Milk-Bone cracked in her jaws, an unpleasant reminder of the park.

Max returned to the camera and framed the door again in its gaping lens. In the kitchen, Susan finished her crunching and now made Roger Ebert squeak. Minutes passed. He felt flushed and feverish again. He wiped sweat from his eyes.

Forget this, Raphael said in his head. You need sleep, Maximillian.

"It's just a creative experiment," Max muttered.

You aren't thinking straight. You're going to get somebody killed.

Max shrugged it off.

In fact, you aren't thinking at all—

"Come on, Jordan," he said. "Before I change my—"

A knock at the door. In the kitchen, Susan started yapping.

An evil grin peeled across Max's face. He set the camera to rolling.

"It's open," he called. "Come on in—"

The door swung wide to reveal Jordan dressed in a suit, no tie, his collared shirt unbuttoned to present a V of hairy chest. As always, regardless of the hour, the producer wore his mirrored shades.

He stepped inside and frowned.

"What are you—?"

A snarling shape blurred onto the scene.

Max's heart caught in his throat. It was Susan, charging in full guard-dog mode. The little dog bolted into view with the giraffe toy clamped in her jaws.

She took a flying leap—

And yanked to a sudden midair stop at the end of the leash.

YAK—

Roger Ebert kept going to flicker out of the frame.

With a sickening snap, the dog flopped to the floor.

Jordan gazed down for a long moment, then looked at Max.

"Christ," he said. "This just isn't your day, is it?"