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THE FUNICULAR SET us down on a concrete platform, and we walked to a waist-high redwood-and-glass fence set twenty yards behind the cable unit. The barrier stretched the width of the property—at least three hundred feet—and halfway to the northern edge; a husky man in a gray uniform stooped and sprayed glass cleaner from a blue bottle. The area between the cliff edge and the fence was a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of packed brown Malibu dirt. No need to conserve space; the expanse before me was twenty acres minimum, maybe more.

Twenty calculated acres. The earth had been bunched into too-gentle slopes of a symmetry that would’ve amused Mother Nature, then cloaked with emerald sod. Beds of tropical vegetation had been cut into the grass, and medallions of flowers sprouted bauble-bright. Granite paths, some hooded by pink marble arbors laced with scarlet bougainvillea, others sun-whitened, sickled through perfect lawns under the selective shade of specimen trees. Maybe half a thousand trees, grouped in copses and pruned sculpturally, as calculated for size and shape as Cheryl’s breasts. The beat of the ocean continued to work its way up. But it competed now with new water music—waterfalls, at least a dozen minicataracts, tumbling into rock pools that seemed to sprout from nowhere. The soda spritz of skyward-aimed fountains jetted from free-form rock ponds, some occupied by swans and ducks and pink flamingos. Bird cries in thedistance didn’t belong to any native species, and something that might’ve been a monkey shrieked.

I said, “Sounds like someone’s got a zoo.”

“All kinds of animals,” said Cheryl, smiling enigmatically and moving several steps ahead of me, long, blond hair flapping against her back. Sage was slung over her shoulder, sleeping soundly, cheeks bunched, tiny mouth a vermilion squiggle. Baxter held my hand without offering resistance. His pace had slowed and his eyelids fluttered, and when I lifted him into my arms he didn’t fight, and I felt his body go heavy against mine.