SEVEN
It wasn’t difficult for Todd to find Eppstadt. Unlike his first visit to this little corner of hell, when his eyes had taken some time to become used to the elaborate fiction that the tiles were creating for him, this time everything was warmed up and ready to go. He looked through the door and there it was, in all its glory, from the spectacle of the eclipse overhead to a single serrated blade of grass bent beneath the toe of his shoe, along which a little black beetle was making its way.
And standing in the midst of all this, looking as appropriate as a hard-on in the Vatican, was Eppstadt. He’d obviously had some problems while he was here. The man who’d been several times cited as the ‘best-dressed man in Los Angeles’ was looking in need of a tailor. His shirt was torn and severely stained with what looked like blood, his face was covered in sweat, and his hair which he obsessively combed over the bald patch (where the hair plugs hadn’t taken)-had fallen forward, exposing an area of shiny pink scalp, and giving him a ridiculous fringe.
“You!” he said, pointing directly at Todd, “You fucking lunatic! You did this deliberately! And, now people are dead, Pickett. Real people. Dead because of your stupid games.”
“Hey, hey, slow down. Who’s dead?”
“Oh, as if you give a damn! You trick us all into following you into this … this … obscenity … ”
Todd looked around as Eppstadt ranted. Obscenity? He saw no obscenity. Given the shortness of his acquaintance with this place he had certainly felt a lot of different things about it. He’d been enchanted here, he’d been so terrified that he’d thought his heart would burst, he’d been absurdly aroused and close to death as he ever wanted to get. But obscene? No. The Devil’s Country was simply the ultimate E-Ticket Ride.
“If you don’t like it,” he said to Eppstadt, “why the hell did you come in here?”
“To help Joe. And now he’s dead.”
“What happened to him?”
Eppstadt glanced over his shoulder, dropping his voice to a whisper. “There’s a child around here. Only it’s not a child. He’s a goat.”
“So he’s the Devil’s kid?”
“Don’t start with that Devil shit. I never made one of those movies — ”
“This isn’t a movie, Eppstadt.”
“No, you’re quite right. It isn’t a movie. It’s a fucking — ”
“Obscenity. Yeah, so you said.”
“How can you be so casual?” Eppstadt said, taking a stride towards Todd. “I just saw somebody sliced to death.”
“What?”
“The goat-boy did it. Just opened up Joe’s throat. And it’s your fault.”
Eppstadt’s stride had picked up speed. He was getting ready to do something stupid, Todd sensed; his terror had become a capacity for violence. And even though there’d been times (that lunch, that long-ago lunch, over rare tuna) when Todd had wanted to beat the crap out of Eppdtadt, this was neither the time nor the place.
“You want to see what you caused?” Eppstadt said.
“Not particularly.”
“Well you’re going to.”
He caught hold of the front of Todd’s T-shirt.
“Let go of me, Eppstadt.”
Eppstadt ignored him. He just turned and hauled Todd after him, the volatile mixture of his fear and rage making him impossible to resist. Todd didn’t even try. Katya had given him a lesson in how to behave here. You kept quiet, or you drew attention to yourself. And somehow-it was something about the way the wind seemed to be blowing from all quarters at once, something about the way the grass seethed at his feet and the trees churned like thunderheads-he thought it wasn’t just Eppstadt who was in a state of agitation. This whole painted world was stirred up.
By now the hunters’ dogs probably had their scent, and the Duke was on his way.
“Just chill,” Todd said to Eppstadt. “I’m not going to fight you. If you want me to see something then I’ll come look. Just stop pulling on me, will you?”
Eppstadt let him go. His lower lip was quivering, as though he was about to burst into tears, which for Todd’s money was worth the price of admission.