Twice something had moved across the road in front of her, its grey form unfixable in the murk. She put on the brakes, and let the creature cross.
Once she got to the house she realized she was not the first visitor. There were two cars already parked outside. She was crossing the street to examine the other two when the earthquake hit.
She’d been in earthquakes before, but she’d never actually been standing so close to the bedrock while one took place. It was quite an experience. She almost lost control of her bladder, as the road idled under her feet, and the trees, especially the big ones, creaked and churned. She stood and waited for the first shock wave to pass, which seemed an eternity. Then, when her heart had recovered something approximating its natural rhythm, she headed towards Katya Lupi’s dream palace.
Eppstadt was in the hallway, looking down the stairwell. It was dark at the bottom, but he thought he saw a motion in the darkness; like motes of pale dust, spiraling around.
“Joe?” he called. “Are you there? Answer me, will you?”
The sound from below had died away: the din of beasts was now barely audible. All that remained was the sound of the wind, which was remarkably consistent, lending credence to the notion that what he was hearing was a soundtrack, not reality. But where the hell had Joe got to? It was fully five minutes since he’d disappeared down the stairs to close the slamming door.
“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”
Eppstadt glanced over his shoulder to see that Brahms had forsaken his place at the window, and had come into the hallway.
“He doesn’t answer me,” Eppstadt said. “I thought perhaps he’d fallen, or … I don’t know. The door’s still slamming. Hear it?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t suppose you want to go down there and close it for me?”
“You’re big on delegation, aren’t you? Do they teach you that in business school?”
“It’s just a door.”
“So close it yourself.”
Eppstadt threw Brahms a sour look. “Or don’t. Leave him down there if that’s what your instincts are telling you.”
“And if I do?”
“Put it this way: the longer you wait, the less chance there is you’ll ever see him again.”
“I should never have sent him down there,” Eppstadt said.
“Huh. I never thought I’d hear that from you.”
“Hear what?”
“Regret. This place is changing you. Even you. I’m impressed.”
Eppstadt didn’t reply. He simply stared down the long curve of the stairway, still hoping he’d see Joe’s well-made face emerging from the shadows. But the only motion down there was the dust stirred up by the wind, circling on itself.
“Joe!” he yelled.
There wasn’t even an echo from below. The bowels of the house seemed to consume the shouted syllable.
“I’m going upstairs,” Jerry said, “to see if there’s anybody up there.”
“Is Maxine still out back?”
“I assume so. And if I remember from previous quakes she’ll stay out there a while. She doesn’t like being under anything, even a table, during a ‘quake. She’ll come in when she’s ready.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You don’t like me, do you?” Eppstadt said out of nowhere.
Jerry shrugged. “Hollywood’s always had its share of little Caligulas.”
So saying, he left Eppstadt to his dilemma, and went on up the stairs. He knew the geography of the house pretty well. There were three doors that led off the top landing. One went to a short passageway, which led in turn to a large bedroom, with en suite bathroom, which had been occupied, until his death, by Marco Caputo. One was a small writing room. And one was the master bedroom, with its astonishing view, its immense closet and sumptuous, if somewhat over-wrought, bathroom.
Jerry had only been in the master bedroom two or three times; but it held fond memories for him. Memories of being a young man (what had he been, twelve, thirteen at the most?) invited in by Katya. Oh, she’d been beautiful that night; it had been like lying in the bed of a goddess. He’d been too frightened to touch her at first, but she’d gently persuaded him out of his fears.