"The woman on the beach," Eppstadt said. "She built this place?"
"Yes. Her name was Katya Lupi and -- "
"I know who she was," Eppstadt replied. "I've seen some of her movies. Trash. Kitsch trash."
It was impossible, of course, that the woman who'd built this Spanish mausoleum was the same individual who'd escorted Todd Pickett into the surf. That woman might have been her grandchild, Eppstadt supposed, at a stretch; a great-grandchild more likely.
He was about to correct Brahms on his generational details when a chorus of yelping coyotes erupted across the Canyon. Eppstadt knew what coyotes sounded like, of course. He had plenty of friends who lived in the Hills, and considered the animals harmless scavengers, digging through their trash and occasionally dining on a pet cat. But there was something about the noise they were making now, as the sun came up, that made his stomach twitch and his skin crawl. It was like a soundtrack of one of the horror movies he'd never green-lit.
And then, just as suddenly as the chorus of coyotes had erupted, it ceased. There were three seconds of total silence.
Then everything began to shake. The walls, the chandelier, the ancient floorboards beneath their feet.
"Earthquake!" Sawyer yelled. He grabbed hold of Maxine's arm. She screeched, and ran for the kitchen door.
"Outside!" she shrieked. "We're all safer outside!"
She could move fast when she needed to. She dragged Sawyer after her, down to the back door. Jerry tried to follow, but the shaking in the ground had become a roll, and he missed his handhold.
Joe, Mid-Western boy that he was, had never experienced an earthquake before. He just stood on the pitching ground repeating the name of his savior over and over and over again, in perfect sincerity.
It's going to stop any minute, Eppstadt thought (he'd lived through many of these, big and small), but this one kept going, escalating. The floor was undulating in front of him. If he'd seen it in dailies he would have fired the physical effects guy for creating something that looked so phony. Solid matter like wood and nails simply didn't move that way. It was ludicrous.
But still it escalated, and Joe's calls to his savior became shouts:
"Christ! Christ! Christ! Christ!"
"When's it going to stop?" Jerry gasped.
He'd given up trying to rise. He just lay on the ground while the rattling and the rolling continued unabated.
There was a crash from an adjacent room, as something was thrown over. And then, from further off, a whole succession of further crashes, as shelves came unseated, and their contents were scattered. A short length of plaster molding came down from the ceiling and smashed on the ground a foot from where Eppstadt was standing, its shards spreading in all directions. He looked up, in case there was more to come. A fine rain of plaster-dust was descending, stinging his eyes. Meanwhile, the quake continued to make the house creak and crack on all sides, Eppstadt's semi-blinded condition only making the event seem all the more apocalyptic. He reached towards Joe, who was hoarse from reciting his one-word prayer, and caught hold of him.
"What's that noise?" the kid yelled over the din.
It seemed like a particularly witless question in the midst of such a cacophony, but interestingly, Eppstadt grasped exactly what the kid was talking about.
There was one sound, amongst the terrifying orchestration of groans and crashes from all over the house, that was deeper than all the others, and seemed to be coming from directly beneath them. It sounded like two titanic sets of teeth grinding together, grinding so hard they were destroying themselves in the process.
"I don't know what it is," admitted Eppstadt. Tears were pouring from his eyes, washing them dear of the plaster-dust.
"Well I want it to fucking stop," Joe said with nice Mid-Western directness.
He'd no sooner spoken than the noise in the earth started to die away, and moments later the rest of the din and motion followed.
"It's over ... "Jerry sobbed.
He'd spoken too soon. There was one last, short jolt in the ground, which brought a further series of crashes from around the house, and from below what sounded like a door being thrown open so violently it cracked its back against the wall.
Only then did the noises and the deep-earth motion finally subside and die away. What was left, from far off, was the sound of car alarms.
"Everybody okay?" Eppstadt said.
"I'll never get used to those damn things," Jerry said.
"That was a big one," Eppstadt said. "6.5 at least."
"And it went on, and on ... "
"I think we should just get the hell out of here," Joe said.
"Before we go anywhere," Eppstadt said, venturing into the kitchen, "we wait for any aftershocks. We're safer inside than out there right now."
"How do you figure that?" Joe said, following Eppstadt into the kitchen.
It was chaos. None of the shelves had come off the walls, but they'd been shaken so violently they'd deposited their contents on the tiled floor. A cabinet holding booze had been shaken down, and several of the bottles broken, filling the air with the sharp tang of mingled liquors. Eppstadt went to the refrigerator-which had been thrown open by the quake, and had half its contents danced off the shelves-and found a can of Coke. He cracked it carefully, letting its excitability fizz away by degrees, then poured it as though this sickly soda was a hundred year old brandy, and drank.
"Better," he said.
"I'll take one of those," Joe remarked.
"What colour do I look?"
Scowling, Joe kicked his way through the fractured crockery to the refrigerator, and got himself a Coke.
"What the hell happened to Maxine?" Eppstadt wondered.
"She went out back with Sawyer," Joe said, averting his face from a fan of erupting Coke.
Eppstadt went out into a passageway that led down to an open door, kicking a few pieces of fallen plaster out of the way as he went.
"Maxine!" he called. "Are you okay?"
There was no reply.
Without waiting for anyone to join him, he headed down to the back door. There was more plaster dust underfoot, and several large cracks in the walls and ceiling. Unlike other areas of the house this portion looked less solid to his eye, and very much less elegant. A hurried later addition, he guessed, and probably more vulnerable to shocks than the older parts of the house. He called out for Maxine again, but again there was no reply forthcoming. He wasn't surprised. The area just outside the door looked squalid; large masses of rotted vegetable matter covered the walkway on the other side of the threshold, giving off a sickly stench. The foliage overhanging the area was so thick that the area was practically benighted.
He went to the threshold, intending to call for Maxine again, but before he could do so he heard the sound of low, sibilant laughter. Since childhood he'd always been certain that laughter heard in his vicinity was laughter heard at his expense, and even though his therapist had worked hard for sixteen years to dissuade him of this neurosis, it lingered. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shadows beneath the trees; dividing form from apparition. Obviously, the laughter had a source, perhaps more than one. He just couldn't make it out.
"Stop that," he ordered.
But the laughter continued, which enraged him. They were laughing at him, he was certain of it. Who else would they be laughing at? Bastards.
He stepped over the threshold, ready to sue. The air was cold and clammy. This wasn't a very pleasant house, he'd decided very quickly, and this was a particularly unpleasant corner of it. But the laughter continued, and he couldn't turn his back on it, not until he'd silenced it.