He took the short passageway down to what Marco had dubbed the Casino, an immense wood-paneled room, lit by a number of low-slung lights, which indeed looked as though it had been designed to house a roulette wheel and half a dozen poker tables. Judging by the distance of the voice it seemed the likeliest place for whoever had spoken to be lurking. As he walked down the passageway it briefly occurred to him that to make this investigation without Marco at his side was foolishness. But the drink made him bold. Besides, it was only a woman he'd heard. He could deal with a woman.
The door of the Casino stood open. He peered in. The windows were undraped; a few soft panels of gray light slid through them, illuminating the enormity of the place. He could see no sign of an intruder. But some instinct instructed him not to believe the evidence of his eyes. He wasn't alone here. The skin of his palms pricked. So, curiously, did the flesh beneath his bandages, as though it were especially susceptible in its newborn state.
"Who's there?" he said, his voice less confident than he'd intended.
At the far end of the room one of the pools of light fluttered. Something passed through it, raising the dust.
"Who's there?" he said again, his hand straying to the light switch.
He resisted the temptation to turn it on, however. Instead he waited, and watched. Whoever this trespasser was, she was too far from him to do any harm.
"You shouldn't be in here," he said gently. "You do know that, don't you?"
Again, that subtle motion at the other end of the room. But he still couldn't make out a figure; the darkness beyond the pool of light was too impenetrable.
"Why don't you step out where I can see you?" he suggested.
This time he got an answer.
"I will . . ." she told him. "In a minute."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Katya."
"How did you get in here?"
"Through the door, like everybody else," she said. Her tone was one of gentle amusement. It would have annoyed Todd if there hadn't also been a certain sweetness there. He was curious to see what she looked like. But the more he pressed her, he thought, the more she'd resist. So he kept the conversation off the subject, and casually wandered across the immaculately laid and polished floor as he talked.
"It must have been hard to find me," he said.
"Not at all," she said. "I heard you were coming from Jerry."
"You know Jerry?"
"Oh, yes. We go way back. He used to come up here when he was a child. You made a good choice with him, Todd. He keeps secrets."
"Really? I always thought he was a bit of a gossip."
"It depends if it's important or not. He never mentioned me to you, did he?"
"No."
"You see? Oh yes, and he's dying. I suppose he didn't mention that either."
"No he didn't."
"Well he is. He has cancer. Inoperable."
"He never said a thing," Todd said, thinking not only of Jerry but of sick, silent Dempsey.
"Well why would he? To you of all people. He idolizes you."
Her familiarity with Jerry, and her knowledge of his sickness, only added to the puzzle of her presence.
"Did he send you up here?" Todd said.
"No, silly," the woman replied. "He sent you. I've been here all the time."
"You have? Where?"
"Oh, I mostly stay in the guest-house."
She spoke so confidently, he almost believed her. But then surely if she were occupying the guest-house, Brahms would have warned Maxine? He knew how important Todd's security was. Why would he let Maxine see the property, and not mention the fact that there was somebody else living in the Canyon?
He was about halfway across the room now, and he could see his visitor's outline in the darkness. Her voice had not misled him. She was a young woman; elegantly dressed in a long, silver gown, highlighted with sinuous designs in gold thread. It shimmered, as though it possessed a subtle life of its own.
"How long have you been staying here?" he said to her.
"A lot longer than you," she replied.
"Really?"
"Well, of course. When I first met Jerry, I'd been here . . . twenty, twenty-five years."
This was an absurd invention, of course. Even without seeing her clearly, it was obvious to him that she was less than thirty; probably considerably less.
"But you said Jerry was a boy when you met him?" Todd said, thinking he'd quickly catch the woman in her lie.
"He was."
"So you can't have known him . . ."
"I know it doesn't seem very likely. But things are different here in the Canyon. You'll see. If you stay, that is. And I hope you will."
"You mean buy the house?"
"No. I mean stay."
"Why would I do that?" he said.
There was a moment's pause; then, finally, she stepped into the light. "Because I want you to," she replied.
It was a moment from a movie; timed to perfection. The pause, the move, the line.
And the face, that was from a movie too, in its luxury, in its perfection. Her eyes were large and luminous, green flecked with lilac. Their brightness was enhanced by the darkness of her eyeshadow, and the thickness of her lashes. Neither her nose nor her mouth was delicate; her lips were full, her chin robust, her cheekbones high; almost Slavic. Her hair was black, and fell straight down, framing her face. She wore plenty of jewelry, and it was all exquisite. One necklace lay tightly in the valley of her throat, another—much, much looser—fell between her breasts. Her earrings were gold; her bracelets—several on each wrist—all elaborately wrought. Yet she carried all this effortlessly, as though she'd been wearing a queen's ransom in jewelry all her life.
"I'm sure you could find plenty of company besides me," Todd said.
"I'm sure I could," she replied. "But I don't want plenty of company. I want you."
Todd was totally bewildered now. No part of this puzzle fitted with any other. The woman looked so poised, so exquisite, but she spoke nonsense. She didn't know him. She hadn't chosen him. He'd come up here of his own free will, to hide himself away. Yet she seemed to insinuate that he was here at her behest, and that somehow she intended to make him stay. It was all pure invention.
Still she didn't look crazy; anything but. She looked, in fact, as though she'd just stepped out of her limo at the Pavilion and was about to walk down the red carpet to a roar of adulation from the crowd. He wouldn't have minded being beside her, either, if she had been taking that walk. They would have made quite a couple.
"You haven't looked around the house very much," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Oh ... I have eyes everywhere," she teased. "If you'd been in some of the rooms in this house, I'd know about it, believe me."
"I don't find any of this very comforting," he said. "I don't like people spying on me."
"I wasn't spying," she said, her tone going from pleasing to fierce in a heartbeat.
"Well what would you call it?"
"I'd call it being a good hostess. Making sure your guest is comfortable."
"I don't understand."
"No," she said, more softly now, "you don't. But you will. When we've had a chance to spend some time with one another you'll see what's really going on here."
"And what's that?"
She half-turned from him, as though she might leave, which was the last thing he wanted her to do. "You know, maybe we'd be better leaving this for another night," she said.
"No," he said hurriedly.
She halted, but didn't turn back.
"I'm sorry," he said. They were rare words from his mouth.
"Truly?" she said. Still she didn't turn. He found himself longing to feel her gaze on him, as though—absurd as this was—she might go some way to filling the void in him.