"Maxine?"
Sawyer was leading a stricken Jerry up onto the patio. At some point in the recent past his rug had become partially unglued and now sat off-center on his head.
"Todd's gone," he said.
"We can't be sure yet, Jerry. Sawyer, get Mister Brahms a scotch and soda. Light on the scotch. Jerry, this is Mister Eppstadt, from Paramount."
"I'm familiar . . ." Jerry said, his gaze going from Eppstadt as soon as he'd laid eyes on him, and drifting off again toward the water. "It's useless. I don't know why they keep searching. They've been swept away by now."
"The house, Jerry."
"What?"
"In the Canyon," Eppstadt said. "I've been hearing about it from Maxine."
"Oh. I see. Well... there's not a lot I can tell you. I just used to go there as a child. I was an actor, you see, when I was much younger."
"And were there other children there?"
"No. Not that I remember, at least. Just a woman called Katya Lupi— who took me under her wing. She's the one . . ." he pointed out toward the waterline ". . . who took Todd."
"No, Jerry," Maxine said. "Whoever that woman was, she was young."
"Katya was young."
"This girl looked twenty-five."
"Katya looked twenty-five." He accepted his scotch and soda from Sawyer. "She wasn't, of course. She was probably a hundred."
"Then how the hell can she have looked twenty-five?" Eppstadt demanded.
Jerry had two words by way of reply.
"Coldheart Canyon."
Eppstadt had no reply to this. He just stared at Brahms, bewildered.
"She looks young," Jerry said. "But she isn't. That was her out there, no doubt about it. Personally, I think it was some kind of a suicide pact between them."
"That's ridiculous!" Maxine snorted. "Todd's got his whole life in front of him."
"I think he may have been more desperate than you realized," Jerry said. "Perhaps if you'd been a little better as friends, he'd still be with us."
"I don't think it's very useful to toss that kind of accusation around," Eppstadt said. "Especially when we don't know the facts."
"I think the facts are very plain," Jerry said. "I still read Variety." He pointed at Maxine. "You decided to give up on representing him when he was having difficulties with his career. And you"—now the accusatory finger went in Eppstadt's direction—"canceled a movie which he had his heart set on. Not to mention the fact that you"—the finger returned to Maxine—"just made a public display of humiliating him. Is it any wonder he decided to put an end to his life?"
Neither accusee attempted a defense. What was the use? What Jerry had said was a matter of public record.
"I want to see this Canyon," Eppstadt said. "And the house."
"The house has nothing to do with any of this," Jerry said. "Frankly, I suggest you keep your distance from it. You've already—"
Eppstadt ignored him. "Where is it?" he demanded of Maxine.
"Well I've never been able to find it on a map but the Canyon runs parallel with Laurel Canyon. I don't think it's even got a proper name."
"Coldheart Canyon," Brahms said again. "That's what they used to call it in the Silent Era. Because she was supposed to have such a cold heart, you see."
"You know your way there?" Eppstadt asked Maxine.
"I... suppose I could find my way . . . but I'd prefer somebody to drive me."
"You," Eppstadt said. It was his turn to point.
Jerry shook his head.
"It's either you taking me, or the police."
"Why'd you want to call the police?"
"Because I think there's some kind of conspiracy going on. You.
Pickett. The woman who went into the sea with him. You're all in this together."
"To do what, for God's sake?"
"I don't know: promote that asshole's career?"
"I assure you—"
"I don't care to hear your assurances," Eppstadt said. "I just need you to take me to this Canyon of yours."
"It's not mine. It's hers. Katya's. If we went there we'd be trespassing on her property. "
"I'll take that risk."
"Well I won't."
"Maxine, tell him he's coming."
"I don't see why you want to go," Jerry pleaded.
"Let's just make Mister Eppstadt happy right now, shall we?"
"I just don't want to trespass," Jerry said again.
"Well you can blame me," Eppstadt said. "Tell this Lupi woman—if she ever surfaces again—that I forced you to take me. Where's the waiter? Joe!"
Eppstadt's makeshift bodyguard came over. "We're going to make a little field-trip. I'd like you to come with us."
"Oh? Okay."
"Maxine, do you have a gun?"
"I'm not going with you."
"Yes you are, m'dear. A gun. Do you have one?"
"Several. But I'm not going. I've had enough excitement for one night. I need some sleep."
"Well here's your choices. Come now and let's find out what the hell's going on up there, together. Or sit tight and wait for my lawyer to call you in the morning."
Maxine looked at him blankly.
"Do I take that as a yes?" he said.
There were five in the expedition party. Maxine's assistant, Sawyer, armed with one of Maxine's guns, drove Maxine. And in a second car, driven by Jerry, went Eppstadt and Joe. The larger of Maxine's guns, a .45, was in Eppstadt's possession. He claimed he knew how to use it.
By the time they had left, many of the party-goers had already drifted away, leaving a hard core of perhaps thirty-five people, many of them still on the beach, waiting to see if anything noteworthy was going to happen. About fifteen minutes after Eppstadt's expedition had departed for the hills the Coast Guard called off the helicopter. There had been a boating accident up the coast—nine people in the water—and air support was urgently needed. One of the two search boats was also called off, leaving the other to make wider and wider circles as any hope that the lost souls were still alive and close to the shore steadily grew more remote, and finally, faded entirely.
PART EIGHT
The Wind
at the Door
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 toward 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.