conversation were kept under wraps.'
The ranger drew a line across his lips.
'Sealed.'
'Muchas gracias.' My friend smiled. 'The construction types who've been passing through, where do they go?'
'To the northeast rim of the crater. It's the only place you can get a look at the entire lake. They stand there and draw plans.'
'Do they ever get down to the lake itself?'
'Nope. It's a two-day descent for an experienced climber. With pitons and rope.'
'How about giving us directions so we can take a look ourselves?'
'What are you driving?'
Milo pointed to the Matador.
The ranger shook his head.
'Forget it unless you feel like hiking. The road ends four miles before the viewpoint. It's four-wheeler terrain. I'll take you in the jeep.'
We hurtled south over a progressively deteriorating road, the ride bone-jarring, the view through the window flaps of the jeep a horizontal slash of ghost-pale rock, infinite and inert. But Sarna made it come alive, giving names to the scrub - greasewood, honey mesquite, rabbit brush -directing our eyes toward rare oases of activity - a flock of birds feasting upon a bitter cherry bush, an alligator lizard scurrying across the spines of a fan palm - extolling the beauty of a single, time-ravaged digger pine, describing the savagery of a hard winter in the high desert and the resilience of those creatures that survive.
Throughout it all Milo slumped in his seat, nodding at the appropriate time, his mind fixed upon a different kind of savagery.
The transition from blacktop to dirt caused the jeep's chassis to vibrate like a bowstring. The dirt turned to sand, and our wheels kicked up a dust storm. Sarna seemed to view it as a challenge, maintaining his speed and playing with the gears in lieu of braking. Milo and I held on to our seats.
We climbed and dipped through the scrub, then climbed again. Remembering what Milo had said about roller coasters, I looked over and saw him: shut-eyed, tight-lipped, and honeydew green.
The jeep continued to rise. Sarna gave one final feed of gas, and we lurched to the top before reaching a shadowed plateau. He came to a halt, set the parking brake, and bounded out.
'We've got to take the last bit on foot.'
We got out and stood facing a stand of pines. Most of the trees were dead - hollow grey hulls with jagged, dry spikes for branches, some felled, others tilting improbably out of the parched earth. The live ones didn't look significantly better. The space between their trunks was filled by eye-searing flashes of grey-white light, and we were forced to look down.
Sarna found a pathway through the trees. We followed him, ankle-deep in leaf dust, stepping gingerly over brittle spindles of dead branches. Once Milo snagged his trouser leg and had to stop to free himself. He still looked ill, but his colour had returned to normal.
Beyond the trees was a clearing, and as we neared it, the grey-white light grew unbearably intense. We walked haltingly toward open ground, shading our eyes with our hands. Sarna stopped along a sloping, sandy rim blemished by random mounds of rock. And beyond the rim, the white-hot light.
'It's hard to see at this time of day,' said the ranger. 'But if we stand over there, we can probably get enough shade. Be careful, the ground tilts sharply.'
He led us to the shelter of one of the rock formations, a pile of boulders topped by an overhanging sandstone shelf. We stood under the shelf and looked out.
The lake was an opal set into the sun-gilded earth. Its surface was as brilliant as a crystal mirror, so static that it seemed artificial. A single step out of the shade turned it into a blinding disc of luminescence, as Milo quickly learned.
'Jesus,' he said, shielding his face and returning to shelter.
Sarna lowered the brim of his hat and nodded.
'The setting sun hits the rocks at an angle that sets off one heck of a refraction. It's another reason few people come up here.'
'It's like a goddamn sheet of plate glass,' said Milo, rubbing his eyes.
'That's what the Spanish thought, too. They named it El
Canon Vidrio, which later became vulgarised to Bitter Canyon. Which is a shame, don't you think? Because on top of being a heck of a lot prettier, the Spanish is accurate.
'Vidrio,' said Milo.
'Sure,' said the ranger. 'The glass canyon.'
SARNA DROPPED us off back at the cafe, and Milo spent another half hour talking to Asa Skaggs, making small talk and trying to find out if he remembered seeing anyone matching Jamey's, Chancellor's, or Gary's description in the recent past. The old man stopped scouring a cold griddle and thought, scratching his head and sucking on his toothless gums.
'Yamagooch - that's a Jap name, ain't it?'
'That's right.'
'We used to have Japs around, in the relocation camp up near Mojave.'
'During World War Two?'
'You bet. Later they let 'em out and put 'em in the army, and I hear they done pretty well - tough little monkeys.'
'I was thinking a bit more recently, Mr. Skaggs.'
'Hmm. No, haven't seen any Japs since then. Plenty of 'em in the city, though. Near San Pedro Street, They call it Little Tokyo now. Got a lady in town, Alma Bachman,
who likes to drive over there and eat raw fish. Says it makes her feel younger, which don't make much sense, does it?'
'Not much,' said Milo.
'You remember those days pretty well, don't you, Mr. Skaggs?' I said. 'During the war and right after?'
'You bet.'
'Do you remember the man who bought the army base?'
'Mr. Black Jack Cadmus? Hard to forget him. Now, that was a gentleman, the kind you don't see no more. Carried himself like a king. Beautiful clothes, down to the spats. Sometimes he'd drive up to look at the lake and stop in for a fill-up and a window wash. I remember the car. Twenty-seven Bugatti. Forty-one Royale, the one with the big monobloc straight eight and the twin-choke carburettor. Jet black and big as a bus. He'd had it restored in Italy and shipped over. The way the thing was put together you had to strip the whole engine down if you needed to work on the valves. Maintenance alone cost enough to support half a dozen families for a year, but that's what the man was like. High style, only the best for him. Once in a while, if I was changin' oil or checkin' the tyres, he'd come in here, sit right where you're sittin'. Have a cup of coffee and a chocolate roll - the man loved chocolate. Sal used to say he coulda been a movie star with that black hair and them white teeth.'
'Did he ever bring anyone with him?'
'Nope. All by his lonesome. Drove the Bugatti as far as it would go, and then he'd hike around for a couple of hours. I'm saying that 'cause sometimes he'd come back all dusty and I'd kid him. 'Been climbin' and gettin' into mischief, Colonel Cadmus?' You could talk to him like that; he had a sense of humour. And he'd smile and answer back, 'Communin' with nature, Asa. Gettin' back to basics.' '
The old man winked and lowered his voice.
'I never asked him about it, but I think he was up there writin' poetry.'
'Why's that?'
'He used to carry this little book with him and one a them fancy gold-tipped fountain pens. One time, when I
was cleaning the windows, he left it open on the seat. I got a quick gander, and it was laid out in these little paragraphs, like poetry. When he saw me lookin', he closed it real quick. Probably didn't want to be thought of as no nancy boy.'
