through the mountains was the Angeles Crest Highway. It rose steadily from La Canada Flintridge, eventually peaking at nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, before descending to an eventual end in the flat, blasted wasteland of the Mojave Desert.
Veering off a sharp curve in this highway was an unmarked road. At the end of the short, bumpy dirt path, flanked by tall pines, sat three wooden buildings, several picnic tables, a flagpole, and a half-dozen tents. This small no-frills campground had been established by two inner city churches in the late 1980s — the Lion of God Church in South Central, Los Angeles, and the Baptist Church School of Compton, a small Christian congregation operated out of a dilapidated storefront.
With a sharp cliff presenting perfect vistas of higher mountain peaks, they could give urban kids a few days of escape from the scorching heat of the city and fulfill their mission statement for all retreats: here the children could witness the glories of God as reflected in nature, rather than the sins and hubris of mankind cast in concrete; they could inhale the scents of plants and trees instead of smog; they could listen to birdsong, while they received biblical instruction, instead of the constant assault of subwoofers in gangbanger SUVs.
Nine of the kids who’d come for this particular retreat session — four boys and five girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen — were now seated around a pair of picnic tables. Breakfast had ended, the paper plates had been gathered up, and Reverend Landers, tall and reed thin with a hide like brown leather and white hair bristling over an expansive forehead, was leading them all in a goodbye prayer.
Fifty feet away, twenty-five-year-old Laney Caulder emerged from the camp’s largest building to stand on its porch. Squinting against the morning glare, the slender young African-American woman with long hair braided into a beautiful cascade of cornrows, looked away from the yellow sun blazing in the sky before covering her head with a baseball cap.
“Sure is gonna be hot down in the city. I almost hate to leave these mountains,” Laney said.
Behind her, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties rolled out of the building on an electric wheelchair.
“It’s hot all right,” Rita Taft observed. “But I can feel a chill in the wind coming off the highlands. Winter’s coming. In a couple more weeks the Reverend’s gonna have to close this place down till spring.”
The older woman scanned the distant mountains with tired eyes. Then, using a chin control to operate the wheelchair, she circled around to face the younger woman.
“Back when this place first opened up, back twenty years ago, you could see snow on the mountains every summer — even in July. But this year’s different. With the drought and all, there’s been no snow. Not one little flake.”
Rita paused, fixed her gaze on the younger woman. “I been thinking that maybe things are better without the white powder, if you know what I mean…”
Laney Caulder nodded. “It’s better.”
“So you’re telling me you ain’t gonna need that nasty snow no more, not even when you get back to the city? Back to that world and all its evil influences?”
The younger woman shook her head. “I’ve been off the drugs nine months now, free and clear. Thanks to you and the Reverend, I found me a better way. I’m not gonna backslide…”
Rita Taft’s grin lit up her round face. “God bless you girl. Keep it up and next year you can take over my job!”
Laney’s brown eyes opened wide. “I could never—”
“You said the same thing six months ago when the Reverend made you a camp counselor. Now you’re the kids’ favorite.”
“I sure do love ’em.”
A cloud of dust appeared above the trees at the end of the camp. A moment later the church van arrived to take the kids home. Laney glanced at the bus nervously, hesitant to leave.
Rita cleared her throat. “You have your cell phone. Don’t forget to call me when you get back to Compton,” she said. “And don’t fret. You’ll only be gone a few days. I’ll see you here next Tuesday when you come up with a fresh batch of kids.”
Laney stooped and kissed the old woman on the cheek. “Take care, Miss Taft, and make sure to remind Tyrell to recharge your battery or you’re gonna get stuck again.”
Rita jerked the chair forward playfully. “Go home, girl.”
Laney bounded off the porch and down to the bus — really a large van with four rows for passengers. Already the kids were climbing inside choosing seats. She circled around to the passenger door and climbed aboard. Thelma Layton, a mother of five with cocoa skin and short black curls, greeted her with a wide grin from behind the steering wheel. “Girl, you are gonna regret going back to that city. Hell has got to be cooler than Compton.”
“Shhh,” hissed Laney. “Watch your language in front of the kids.”
Thelma threw her head back and laughed. “Those kids don’t scare me, and they ain’t listening anyway. I do watch my mouth in front of Miss Taft, however. Once I used the F word and she whacked me in the shins with that damn chair of hers.”
Laney shot her friend a shocked look. “You’re lucky she didn’t have Tyrell wash out your mouth with soap.”
Thelma offered Laney a sly smile. “I don’t worry about Tyrell nor the Reverend either. They’re both too old to catch up with me.”
Thelma checked the passengers through the rearview mirror.
“Okay, everyone, buckle up,” she called loudly over the laughter and cries of the children. A moment later she started the engine, kicked up the air conditioner. The bus circled the camp one last time, then climbed back up the hill toward the highway.
The wooden gate was closed. Thelma braked and the dust cloud they’d kicked up washed over the bus. “I told Tyrell to leave that gate open. Where was he going, anyway?”
“The Wal-Mart in Verdugo City. Miss Taft needed some stuff,” Laney replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll open the gate.”
Shepoppedthe door andhoppedout,ran to the wooden gate and dragged it open. A few yards beyond the entrance, the concrete ribbon of highway began.
“Get in!” Thelma called.
Laney shook her head. “I don’t want to leave the gate open. Go through and wait for me on the highway.”
Thelma waved and moved the vehicle forward. Over the rumble of the van’s engine, Laney thought she heard another sound — a roar like an airplane.
Just as the church van rolled onto the highway, the muted, unidentified noise Laney heard before was suddenly a deafening roar. Racing full-throttle, a crimson sports car squealed around the corner, rushing toward the packed van for a head-on collision. Tires squealed and the vehicle fishtailed as Thelma tried to get out of the way of the oncoming hot rod. Her quick maneuver avoided a total smash-up, and the two vehicles struck with a glancing blow.
Laney heard the sound of tearing metal, saw sparks. Shards of glass rained down on the highway as the windows blew out of the van. Careening off the sports car, the van slammed into a guardrail that had already been weakened by a minor landslide. Its velocity, and the vehicle’s heavy weight, ripped the base of the rail out of the ground and sent the van tumbling down the steep side of the mountain.
Helpless to do more than scream, Laney watched the SUV roll down the steep embankment. Clutching her head in horror, she ignored the sports car as it rolled onto the shoulder of the road and skidded to a halt in a shower of dirt and rocks.
The young woman bolted across the highway, watched as the church van flipped over and tumbled end over end into a deep, tree-lined chasm. Over the crunch of metal and the crash of sliding rocks, Laney heard Thelma’s cries and the screams of the children. But when the bus finally struck the bottom of the canyon, all human sounds abruptly ceased.
Laney fell on her knees, sobbing, beating the pavement with her fists. She looked around, hoping for someone to help, for a miracle. Only then did she spot the red Jaguar. The driver had never even gotten out of the car. Now he was trying to back out of the shoulder of the road, onto the roadway. Laney realized the speeder was trying to get away.
