ONE
The night was almost over by the time the two cars bearing Eppstadt’s little expeditionary force made their way up the winding road that led into Coldheart Canyon. The sky was just a little lighter in the east, though the clouds were thick, so it would be a sluggish dawn, without an ounce of the drama which had marked the hours of darkness. In the depths of the Canyon itself, the day never truly dawned properly at all. There was a peculiar density to the shadows between the trees today; as though the night lingered there, in scraps and rags. Day-blooming flowers would fail to show themselves, even at the height of noon; while plants that would normally offer sight and scent of themselves only after dark remained awake through the daylight hours.
None of this was noticed by Eppstadt or the others in his party; they were not the sort of people who noticed things to which so little value could be readily attached. But they knew something was amiss, even so, from the moment they stepped out of their vehicles. They proceeded towards the house exchanging anxious looks, their steps reluctant. Even Eppstadt, who had been so vocal about seeing the Canyon when they’d all been down in Malibu, plainly wished he’d not talked himself into this. Had he been on his own he would undoubtedly have retreated. But he could scarcely do so now, with so many people watching. He could either hope that something alarming (though inconsequential) happened soon, and he was obliged to call, a general retreat in the interest of the company, or that they’d get into the house, make a cursory examination of the place, then agree that this was a matter best left with the police, and get the hell out.
The feeling he had, walking into the house, was the same feeling he sometimes got going onto a darkened sound stage. A sense of anticipation hung in the air. The only question was: what was the drama that was going to be played out here? A continuation of the farce he’d been so unwillingly dragged into on the beach? He didn’t think so. The stage was set here for some other order of spectacle, and he didn’t particularly want to be a part of it.
In all his years running a studio he’d never green-lit a horror movie, or anything with that kind of supernatural edge. He didn’t like them. On the one hand, he thought they were contemptible rubbish; and on the other, they made his flesh creep. They unnerved him with their reports from some irrational place in the psyche; a place he had fled from all his life. The Canyon knew that place, he sensed. No, he knew. There were probably subjects for a hundred horror movies here, God help him.
“Weird, huh?” Joe remarked to him.
Eppstadt was glad he’d brought the kid along. Though Eppstadt didn’t have a queer bone in his body there was still something comforting about having a big-boned, Mid-Western dumb-fuck like Joe on the team.
“What are we looking for, anyhow?” Joe asked as Maxine led the way into the house.
“Anything out of the ordinary,” Eppstadt replied.
“We don’t have any right to be here,” Maxine reminded him. “And if Todd is dead, the police aren’t going to be very happy that we touched stuff.”
“I get it, Maxine,” he said. “We’ll be careful.”
“Big place,” Joe said, wandering into the lounge. “Great for parties.”
“Let’s get some lights on in this place, shall we?” Eppstadt said. He’d no sooner spoken than Sawyer found the master panel, and flipped on every one of the thirty switches before him. Room after dazzling room was revealed, detail after glorious detail.
Jerry had seen the dream palace countless times over the years, but for some reason, even in its early days when the paint was fresh and the gilding perfect, he’d never seen the house put on a show quite like this. It was almost as if the old place knew it didn’t have long to live and-knowing its span was short-was making the best of the hours remaining to it.
“The woman on the beach,” Eppstadt said. “She built this place?”