"Oh please, Rudy, no lectures on narcissism. Not from you, of all people."
"I see things differently now."
"Oh I'm sure you do. I'm sure you regret every self-obsessed moment of your petty little life. But that's really not my problem, now is it?"
The color of the ghost before her suddenly changed. In a heartbeat he became a stain of yellow and gray, his fury rising in palpable waves off his face.
"I will make it your problem," he shrieked. He strode towards her. "You selfish bitch."
"And what did they call you?" she snapped back. "Powder-puff, was it?"
It was an insult she knew would strike him hard. Just the year before an anonymous journalist in the Chicago Tribune had called him 'a pink powder puff'. 'Why didn't somebody quietly drown Rudolph Guglielmi, alias Valentino, years ago?' he'd written. Rudy had challenged the man to a boxing match, to see which of them was truly the more virile. The journalist had of course never shown his face. But the insult had stuck. And hearing it repeated now threw Valentino into such a rage that he pitched himself at Katya, reaching for her throat. She had half-expected his phantom body to be so unsubstantial that his hands would fail to make any real contact. But not so. Though the flesh and blood of him had been reduced to an urn full of ashes, his spirit-form had a force of its own. She felt his fingers at her neck as though they were living tissue. They stopped her breath.
She was no passive victim. She pushed him back with the heel of one hand, raking his features from brow to mid-cheek with the other. Blood came from the wounds, stinking faintly of bad meat. A disgusted expression crossed Valentino's face, as he caught a whiff of his own excremental self. The shock of it made him loose his hold on her, and she quickly pulled away from him.
In life, she'd remembered, he'd always been overly sensitive to smells; a consequence, perhaps, of the fact that he'd been brought up in the stench of poverty. His hand went up his wounded face, and he sniffed his fingers, a look of profound revulsion on his face.
She laughed out loud at the sight. Valentino's fury had suddenly lost its bite. It was as though in that moment he suddenly understood the depths to which the Devil's Country had brought him.
And then, out of the darkness, Zeffer called: "What the hell's going on out -- "
He didn't finish his question: he'd seen Valentino.
"Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty," he said.
Hearing the Lord's name taken in vein, Valentino -- good Catholic boy that he was -- crossed himself, and fled into the darkness.
Valentino's vengeful prediction proved entirely accurate: in the next few weeks the haunting of Coldheart Canyon began.
At first the signs were nothing too terrible: a change in the timbre of the coyotes' yelps, the heads torn off all the roses one night; the next all the petals off the bougainvillea; the appearance on the lawn of a frightened deer, throwing its glassy gaze back towards the thicket in terror. It was Zeffer's opinion that they were somehow going to need to make peace with 'our unwanted guests', as he put it, or the consequences would surely be traumatic. These were not ethereal presences, he pointed out, wafting around in a hapless daze. If they were all like Valentino (and why should they not be?) then they posed a physical threat.
"They could murder us in our beds, Katya," he said to her.
"Valentino wouldn't -- "
"Maybe not Valentino, but there are others, plenty of others, who hated you with a vengeance. Virginia Maple for one. She was a jealous woman. Remember? And then to hang herself because of something you did to her -- "
"I did nothing to her! I just let her play in that damn room. A room which you brought into our lives."
Zeffer covered his face. "I knew it would come down to that eventually. Yes, I'm responsible. I was a fool to bring it here. I just thought it would amuse you."
She gave him a strangely ambiguous look. "Well, you know, it did. How can I deny that? It still does. I love the feeling I get when I'm in there, touching the tiles. I feel more alive." She walked over to him, and for a moment he thought she was going to grant him some physical contact: a stroke, a blow, a kiss. He didn't really mind. Anything was better than her indifference. But she simply said: "You caused this, Willem. You have to solve it."
"But how? Perhaps if I could find Father Sandru -- "
"He's not going to take the tiles back, Willem."
"I don't see why not."
"Because I won't let him! Christ, Willem! I've been in there every day since you gave me the key. It's in my blood now. If I lose the room, it'll be the death of me."
"So we'll move and we'll take the room with us. It's been moved before. We'll leave the ghosts behind."
"Wherever the Hunt goes, they'll follow. And sooner or later they'll get so impatient, they'll hurt us."
Zeffer nodded. There was truth in all of this, bitter though it was.
"What in God's name have we done?" he said.
"Nothing we can't mend," Katya replied. "You should go back to Romania, and find Sandru. Maybe there's some defense we can put up against the ghosts."
"Where will you stay while I'm gone?"
"I'll stay here. I'm not afraid of Rudy Valentino, dead or alive. Nor that idiotic bitch Virginia Maple. If I don't stay, they'll find their way in."
"Would that be such a bad thing? Why not let them share the place? We could make a pile of them on the lawn and -- "
"No. That room is mine. All of it. Every damn tile."
The quiet ferocity with which she spoke silenced him. He just stared at her for perhaps a minute, while she lit a cigarette, her fingers trembling. Finally, he summoned up enough courage to say: "You are afraid."
She stared out of the window, almost as though she hadn't heard him. When she spoke again her voice was as soft as it had been strident a minute ago.
"I'm not afraid of the dead, Willem. But I am afraid of what will happen to me if I lose the room." She looked at the palm of her hand, as though she might find her future written there. But it wasn't the lines of her hand she was admiring, it was its smoothness. "Being in the Devil's Country has made me feel younger, Willem. It did that to everybody. Younger. Sexier. But as soon as it's taken away ... "
" ... yes. You'll get sick."
"I'm never going to get sick." She allowed herself the time for a smile. "Perhaps I'm never going to die."
"Don't be foolish."
"I mean it."
"So do I. Don't be foolish. Whatever you think the room can do, it won't make you immortal."
The wisp of a smile remained on her face. "Wouldn't you like that, Willem?"
"No."
"Just a little bit?"
"I said no," he shook his head, his voice dropping. "Not any more."
"Meaning what?"
"What do you think I mean? This life of ours ... isn't worth living."
There was a silence between them. It lasted two, three, four minutes. Rain began to hit the window; fat spots of it bursting against the glass.
"I'll find Sandru for you," Willem said finally. "Or if not him, somebody who knows how to deal with these things. I'll find a solution."
"Do that," she said. "And if you can't, don't bother to come back."
PART SIX. THE DEVIL'S COUNTRY
ONE
Todd knew the mechanics of illusion passably well. He'd always enjoyed watching the special effects guys at work, or the stuntmen with their rigs; and now there was a new generation of illusionists who worked with tools that the old matte painters and model-makers of an earlier time could not even have imagined. He'd been in a couple of pictures in which he'd played entire scenes against blank green screens, which were later replaced with landscapes which only existed in the ticking minds of computers.