Dead Lines
Ring, ring. You’re dead.We were all there in that city that draws its paycheck from the manufacture of ghosts, itself made of ghosts: Los Angeles. We were there when one man started handing out free talk. And we are there now, sad little dolls made of dust…Peter Russell lost a daughter to a serial killer. His marriage was the next casualty. Now he gets by as Mr Fixit for a film millionaire with a young wife on a big Hollywood estate infamous for its association with a historical scandal. The millionaire invests in a new kind of phone, the Trans. The problem with the Trans is that not only can you talk to your friends on it, you can also talk to the dead – though that wasn't part of the design spec.The Trans accesses forbidden channels. It has disrupted the exit routines of the recently dead to wherever they should have gone. At first, Russell is only haunted by his dead daughter. Now there are phantoms everywhere. Many are ghosts of the living, people with nothing inside them, called wraiths.A cascade of transgression and murder is unleashed as sales of the Trans take off. Harried near to death himself by his murdered child, Russell must find out who killed her and find a way to put an end to it all, if it kills him.
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DEAD LINES
GREG BEAR
For J. Sheridan Le Fanu. Henry James. M.R. James. Arthur Machen. H.P. Lovecraft. Shirley Jackson. Fritz Leiber. Richard Matheson. Kingsley Amis. Peter Straub. Bruce Joel Rubin. Ramsey Campbell. Dean Koontz. Stephen King. Scary people, all.
Contents
Paul is dead. Call home.
Peter Russell, stocky and graying, stood on the sidewalk and squinted at the text message on his cell phone, barely visible in the afternoon sun on Ventura Boulevard.
He lifted his round glasses above small, amused eyes, and brought the phone closer to see the display more clearly.
Paul is dead. He flashed on his youth, when for a week he had sincerely believed that Paul was dead: Paul McCartney. I am the walrus. But he had misread the phone’s blocky letters. The message was actually Phil is dead.
That shook him. He knew only one Phil. Peter had not talked with Phil Richards in a month, but he refused to believe that the message referred to his best friend of thirty-five years, the kinder, weaker and almost certainly more talented of the Two P’s. Not the Phil with the thirty-two foot Grand Taiga motor home, keeper of their eternal plans for the World’s Longest Old Farts Cross-country Hot Dog Escapade and Tour.
Please, not that Phil.
He hesitated before hitting callback. What if it was a joke, a bit of cell phone spam?
Peter drove a vintage Porsche 356C Coupe that had once been signal red and was now roughly the shade of a dry brick. He fumbled his key and almost dropped the phone before unlocking the car door. He did not need this. He had an important appointment. Angrily, he pushed the button. The number rolled out in musical beeps. He recognized the answering voice of Carla Wyss, whom he had not heard from in years. She sounded nervous and a little guilty.
‘Peter, I just dropped by the house. I took the key from your bell and let myself in. There was a note. My God, I never meant to snoop. It’s from somebody named Lydia.’ Lydia was Phil’s ex-wife. ‘I thought I should let you know.’
Peter had shown Carla the secret of the bronze Soleri bell, hanging outside the front door, after a night of very requited passion. Now, upset, she was having a sandwich and a root beer from his refrigerator. She hoped he didn’t mind.
‘Mi casa es su casa,’ Peter said, beyond irritation. He tongued the small gap between his front teeth. ‘I’m listening.’
Carla’s voice was shaky. ‘All right. The note reads “Dear Peter, Phil died. He had a heart attack or a stroke, they aren’t sure which. Will let you know details.” Then it’s signed very neatly.’ She took a breath. ‘Wasn’t he another writer? Didn’t I meet him here in the house?’
‘Yeah.’ Peter pressed his eyes with his fingers, blocking out the glare. Lydia had been living in Burbank for a few years. She had apparently made the rounds of Phil’s LA friends. Carla rattled on, saying that Lydia had used a fountain pen, a folded sheet of hand-made paper, a black satin ribbon, and Scotch tape.
Lydia had never liked telephones.
Phil is dead.
Thirty-five years of kid dreams and late night plans, sitting in the back yard in old radar-dish rattan chairs on the dry grass between the junipers. Shooting the bull about stories and writing and big ideas. Phil hanging out on movie sets and model shoots – not so selfless – but also helping Peter carry his bulky and unsold wire sculptures to the dump in the back of the old Ford pickup they had often swapped.
Only the truck, never the women, Phil had lamented.
Slight, wiry Phil with the short, mousy hair who smiled so sweetly every time he saw a naked lady. Who longed for the female sex with such clumsy devotion.
‘Are you okay, Peter?’ Carla asked from far away.
‘Heart attack,’ Peter repeated, lifting the phone back to his mouth.
‘Or a stroke, they aren’t sure. It’s a very pretty note, really. I’m so sorry.’
He visualized Carla in his house, locked in her perpetual late thirties, leggy as a deer, dressed in pedal pushers and a dazzling man’s white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up and tails pinned to show her smooth, flat tummy.
‘Thanks, Carla. You better leave before Helen comes over,’ Peter said, not unkindly.
