Coldheart Canyon
“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.
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