Jeff Rovin - Fatalis

"And those remains are the ones that have been dug from the pits," Hannah said.

"In many cases, yes," Grand said. "Now suppose our saber-tooths were forced to leave the tar pits for some reason. Maybe they were driven out by a series of natural disasters tied to the eruption that eventually trapped them-forest fires or earthquakes or underwater eruptions that sent a tsunami inland. What if they sought refuge on the high ground of the Santa Ynez Mountains until they thought it was safe to return? Maybe it was smoky so they went underground. What if they were trapped in the cave before they could go home?"

"You're a genius," Hannah said. "So they emerged a few days ago, thinking that no time had passed-"

"And continued toward the tar pits," Grand said.

"But why would they have separated into two groups?"

"I'm not sure," Grand said. "Male and female lions often hunt separately, in relatively close proximity. Maybe the females headed to the smell of tar, thinking that vulnerable prey or the saber-tooth males would be there. Maybe they became disoriented and were separated from the males."

"God, what a story," Hannah exclaimed. "Male saber-toothed tigers headed for Beverly Hills."

"Hannah, this is still speculative-"

"I know," she said.

"The worst thing we can do is cause people to panic, start shooting everything that moves."

"I know that too," Hannah said. "And I won't run any of this. But you'll keep me in the loop?"

"Of course."

She handed him a cell phone. "I'm going back to the office. I'll call you on this. See why I carry three phones?"

He put the phone in his jacket pocket. "Because you're obsessive," Grand said. "But I'm glad, Hannah. Thanks for your help. Thanks for everything, Hannah."

She smiled. "Just stay safe, okay? If those cats figure out that they lost their mates, they aren't going to be very happy."

"I know," Grand said.

"And I wouldn't be very happy if I lose you."

Hannah stood on her toes, kissed Grand on the cheek, then quickly walked away.

Grand turned toward Gearhart. The carnage was awful. But there was the future to think about. And for the first time in a long time he had a reason to care whether or not he ended his day as the mummified Brooding Mountain Man.

There was a time, early in the twentieth century, when the long and winding Sunset Boulevard offered spectacular views of the sun as it disappeared into the Pacific. That was before the avenue became so built-up that it was impossible to see the horizon over the homes, trees, and buildings in Beverly Hills and in the Pacific Palisades.

To see breathtaking sunsets, one of the best vantage points in the Los Angeles region is high in the Hollywood Hills. Located north of Los Angeles, the Hollywood Hills are a terminus of the sprawling Coast Ranges, a system comprised of the Sierra Madre Mountains, the San Rafael Mountains, the Santa Ynez Mountains, and many others.

One of the highest and most scenic spots in the Hollywood Hills is the high area where Coldwater Canyon Drive and twisting Mulholland Drive intersect Not only are the sunsets awe-inspiring as they turn the hills and valleys from forest green to flame red, then from brown to black, they're followed by lights winking on across the wide, flat floor of the San Fernando Valley. Rippling heat gives a distinctive shimmer to the tiny white lights as they spread out for miles, more plentiful and brighter than the stars in the skies above.

Six-foot-four-inch Jason Broughton stole a moment from his guests. He pretended to be on his cell phone but what he really wanted was to look across his backyard and savor the view of the valley. He used to be daunted by those lights. When the unemployed actor worked as a valet for a Japanese restaurant on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks, he would drive into the hills at night and see the lights as places he didn't want to be: the boulevard where he worked, which was a commercial drag that had nothing to do with movies; an apartment he shared on Kester with two other aspiring actors; the valet job at night and clerking at a video store during the day.

Now the thirty-seven-year-old saw the lights as something magnificent. They were the map of a place he owned. After years of clawing his way up from bit parts, Jason Broughton was the star of the smash hour-long adventure series The Legendary Adventures of Mighty Samson . He was the new owner of this sprawling house that once belonged to one of the founders of Hollywood.

He had arrived. Those lights were his now. So much was his.

Jason turned. He looked at his sprawling, all-white Mediterranean-style home and his three-quarter-acre yard. The grounds were surrounded by ten-foot-high hedges, stonework, and poplar trees. Iron torches with flickering electric lights were mounted on the trees, house, and cabana and gave the small estate a Greco-Roman look. He had had those put in, replacing the garish spotlights that had been buried about the property.

A small pool in the center of the yard was lit by candles floating on miniature wooden barges. Jason looked at the tents arrayed around the pool. The sheer fabric blew lightly in the soft early-evening breeze. The tents were supported by columns and surrounded by statues that had been used on his show. The meats and vegetables roasted on open fires in stone pits. The waitstaff, dressed in Philistine attire, offered beverages in real silver goblets. He knew that guests were chatting with each other but looking at him and smiling. Actors and actresses. Agents and managers. The press.

They were his now, too.

Life was good.

Jason closed up his phone. He tucked it back into his white dinner jacket. It was time to return to his guests.

Suddenly, something leaped over the hedge, landed on the actor's back, and pounded him face-first into the lush green grass. Jason's spine and both of his lungs were crushed. In the moment of life that remained he saw a monstrous golden thing jump to the ground in front of him, jag suddenly to the left, and launch itself at Lizz Hirsch-Horn, his Delilah.

At the same time, the hedges and walls of the estate were being breached on all sides by other giants, some of them nine and ten feet long and standing five feet high at the shoulder. They flew down into the perimeter like dark angels, drawn by the smell of meat and the shimmering water of the pool. They tore into the fresh game that was standing around the yard, bounding one way and then the other, thick claws and fangs savagely pulling down prey by an arm or leg. Some cats would twist their prey by the head to break its spine, while others simply left it crippled where it fell so it couldn't get away. Then they would turn on another victim. Half the forty-odd guests were down in a matter of seconds.

The initial charge was followed by the choked screams and panicked flight of a disoriented mob. Guests who had been networking seconds before were now trying vainly to survive. The flame pits filled with stumbling waitstaff and panicked producers, the tents were splashed with the blood of actors and agents, and the pool filled quickly with reporters and managers who sought safety in the water. But the cats followed them in. Some of the saber-tooths jumped while others slid into the pool like crocodiles. The water turned cherry-red as the cats bit into their victims and shook them violently from side to side. The guests flailed and gurgled, groping hands and looks of wide-eyed terror occasionally bursting through the surface. Before long the cats climbed back onto the tile, dripping water and blood from their dead prey. The bodies were dropped on the edge of the pool while the cats pursued the few who had managed to get as far as the driveway.

Soon everything was silence. As the flickering fires threw distorted shadows on the hedges, the cats speared the party-goers with their fangs and began carrying them through the hedges to the valley whence they'd come.