"Coldheart Canyon (preview edition)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive - Coldheart Canyon)

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE THE CANYON
PART ONE THE PRICE OF THE HUNT
PART TWO THE HEART-THROB
PART THREE A DARKER TIME
PART FOUR LIFE AFTER FAME
PART FIVE DESIRE
PART SIX THE DEVIL'S COUNTRY
PART SEVEN THE A-LIST
PART EIGHT THE WIND AT THE DOOR
PART NINE THE QUEEN OF HELL
PART TEN AND THE DEAD CAME IN
PART ELEVEN THE LAST CHASE
EPILOGUE AND SO, LOVE
PROLOGUE
THE CANYON
It is night in Coldheart Canyon, and the wind comes off the desert.
The Santa Anas, they call these winds. They blow off the Mojave, bringing
malaise, and the threat of fire. Some say they are named after Saint Anne, the
mother of Mary, others that they are named after one General Santa Ana, of the
Page 2
Barker, Clive - Coldheart Canyon
Mexican cavalry, a great creator of dusts; others still that the name is derived
from santanta, which means Devil Wind.
Whatever the truth of the matter, this much is certain: the Santa Anas are
always baking hot, and often so heavily laden with perfume that it's as though
they've picked up the scent of every blossom they've shaken on their way here. Every
wild lilac and wild rose, every white sage and rank jimsonweed, every heliotrope and
creosote bush: gathered them all up in their hot embrace and borne them into the
hidden channel of Coldheart Canyon.
There's no lack of blossoms here, of course. Indeed, the Canyon is almost
uncannily verdant. Some of the plants here were brought in from the world outside by
these same burning winds, these Santa Anas; others were dropped in the feces of the
wild animals who wander throughуthe deer and coyote and raccoon; some spread from
the gardens of the great dream palace that lays solitary claim to this corner of
Hollywood. Alien blooms, this last kindуorchids and lotus flowersуnurtured by
gardeners who have long since left off their pruning and their watering, and
departed, allowing the bowers which they once treasured to run riot.
But for some reason there is always a certain bitterness in the blooms here.
Even the hungry deer, driven from their traditional trails these days by the
presence of sightseers who have come to see Tinseltown, do not linger in the Canyon
for very long. Though the deer venture along the ridge and down the steep slopes of
the Canyon, and curiosity, especially amongst the younger animals, often leads them
over the rotted fences and toppled walls into the secret enclaves of the gardens,
they seldom choose to stay there for very long.
Perhaps it isn't just that the leaves and petals are bitter. Perhaps there
are too many whisperings in the air around the ruined gazebos, and the animals are
unnerved by what they hear. Perhaps there are too many presences brushing against
their trembling flanks as they explore the clotted pathways. Perhaps, as they graze
the overgrown lawns, they lookup and mistake a statue for a pale fragment of life,