Milo missed the road, and we found ourselves at the sign marking the entrance to Jersey. Lights out in all the mobile homes. I remembered the street bisecting the subdivision as freshly asphalted. In the darkness, it stretched empty and smooth, so perfectly drafted it appeared computer generated. Resumption of the tangerine light. Deep orange on black; every night was Halloween.
'This is where Haas lives?' he said.
'First street to the right. I can show you the trailer.'
He cruised past the trailers.
'Up there is parking for visitors,' I said. 'No visitors tonight… There's Charing Cross. Haas's place is four units in. Look for a cement porch, a Buick Skylark, and a Datsun truck.'
He stopped two houses away. Only the truck was parked in front, backed by Mike Whitworth's Harley.
Lights out. No sign of Whitworth, and I saw Milo's face tighten up. Then the Highway Patrol man came out from behind the trailer and headed for the bike.
Milo stage-whispered, 'Mike? It's Milo.'
Whitworth stopped. Turned toward us, focused, came over.
'In the neighborhood,' said Milo, 'so we dropped by.'
If Whitworth was offended by being second-guessed he didn't show it. 'No one home, nothing funny. I spotted some unopened mail on the table-a day's worth, maybe two.'
'One of their cars is gone,' I said. 'They have family in Bakersfield. Probably traveling.'
'You see any justification for breaking in?' said Whitworth.
Milo shook his head.
'I'm not comfortable with it either. Okay, let me go see if any of my guys hit a hole in one. You ready for the mountains yet?'
'On our way,' said Milo.
Whitworth looked out at the black peaks, barely discernible against the onyx sky. Country skies were supposed to be crammed with stars. Why not tonight?
'Must be pretty during the day,' said Whitworth, kick-starting the Harley. 'Sure you want to go it alone?'
'I'd better,' said Milo. 'Gonna be hard enough to avoid being spotted with one vehicle.' He brandished his cell phone. 'I'll keep in touch.'
Whitworth nodded, took another glance at the Tehachapis. Keeping his engine low, he rolled away.
Turning the Samurai around, Milo drove back through Jersey. Lights went on in one of the mobiles as we passed, but so far we'd avoided attracting undue attention. Milo coasted without gas, looking for the service strip. Almost missing it again. Unmarked, just a car-wide break in the peppers, topped by arcing branches.
Letting the Samurai idle, Milo got out and shined his light on the ground. 'Hardpack… maybe degraded granite… tire tracks. Someone's been here.'
'Recently?'
'Hell if I know. Jeb the Tracker I ain't.'
He got back in and turned onto the road. The passage was unlit and lined on the north side by more chain link, on the south by a high berm planted with what looked and smelled like oleander. The Samurai traveled well below the berm level, as if we were tunneling.
The four-by-four rode rough, every irregularity in the road vibrating through the stiff frame, Milo's head bouncing perilously close to the roll bar. Nothing changed for the next half-mile: more chain link and shrubbery. Then the road ended without warning and we were faced with the sudden shock of open space, as if tumbling out of a chute.
No more gray, just black. I saw nothing through the windshield, wondered how Milo could navigate. He began wrestling with the wheel. Pebble spray snare-drummed against the undercarriage, followed by deeper sounds, hollow, like hoof-beats. Larger rocks. The Samurai began swaying from side to side, seeking purchase on the grit. Beneath the floorboard, the chassis twanged.
The next dip slammed Milo's head against the bar.
He cursed and braked.
'You okay?' I said.
He rubbed his crown. 'If I had a brain in here I might be in trouble. What the hell am I doing? I can't drive like this. Visibility's zilch; we hit a big enough rock, this thing flips and we break our goddamn necks.'
Locking the parking brake, he stood on the seat and stared over the windshield.
'Nothing,' he said. 'Whole lot of nothing.'
I took the flashlight, got out, faced away from the mountains, cupped my hand over the lens, and tried to examine the ground with the resultant muffled light.
Dry, compacted soil, inlaid with sharp-edged stones and desiccated plants. Matted flat and embroidered by chevron-shaped corrugations. 'The tracks are still going.'
He got down beside me. 'Yeah… maybe someone went off-roading. That wild oF California lifestyle.' He laughed very softly. 'They're supposed to be the crazy ones, but they probably did it with headlights, or at least low beams. Meanwhile, I blind myself. And even without lights we're vulnerable. All the empty space, this thing's probably audible clear to the mountains.' Standing, he squinted at the Teha-chapis. 'How far does that look to you?'
'Two miles,' I said. 'Maybe three. You're saying it's time to go it on foot?'
'I don't see any choice. If you're up for it, that is-scratch that, stupid question. Of course you're up for it. You're the one who thinks running is fun.'
He tried to call Whitworth, got no connection, walked a hundred feet back, tried again, same result. Switching off the phone, he put it in his pocket along with the car keys. The flashlight went into another pocket. He took the rifle, gave me the nine-millimeter.
'Handing a civilian my gun.' He shook his head.
'Not just any civilian,' I said.
'Even worse. Okay, let me get rid of this thing.' He yanked off his tie and tossed it in the car. 'And this.' In went his jacket. Mine, too.
We began walking, trying to follow the tracks.
Moving on leather-soled shoes ill-equipped for the task. Nothing to guide us but the hint of the crisp peaks I'd seen during my daytime visit. The quarter-moon looked sickly, degraded, a child's rendering erased here and there to tissue-paper consistency. Set high and well behind the mountains, the filmy crescent appeared to be fleeing the galaxy. What little light filtered down to earth offered no wisdom about anything below the mountaintops.
The lack of spatial cues made it feel as if we'd entered a huge, dark room as big as the world; every step was tinged by the threat of vertigo.
Reduced to stiff, small movements, I edged forward, feeling the rocks rolling under my shoes. Larger, sharper fragments caught on the leather, like tiny parasites attempting to burrow through. As the stones grew progressively larger, contact became painful. I got past the discomfort but remained unable to orient myself. Clumsy with indecision, I stumbled a few times, came close to falling, but managed to use my arms for balance. Several feet in front of me, Milo, encumbered by the rifle, had it worse. I couldn't see him but I heard him breathing hard. Every so often the exhalations choked off, only to resume harsher, faster, like a labored heart making up for skipped beats.
Ten more minutes seemed to bring us no closer. No lights up ahead. Nothing up ahead but walls of rock, and I started to feel I'd been wrong about Crimmins returning to the scene. A fourteen-year-old in his grasp, and we were baby-stepping toward nothing.
What else was there to do but continue?
Three times we paused to risk a quick, cupped flash-lighting of the path. The tracks endured, and immense boulders started appearing, sunk deeply into the ground, like fallen meteorites. But no rocks directly in front of us, so far. This was a well-used clearing.
We kept moving at a pitiful pace, shuffling like old men, enduring the loss of orientation in angry silence. Finally, the moonlight obliged a bit more, revealing folds and corrugations in the granite. But I still couldn't see two feet in front of me, and each step remained constricted, tension coursing up my tailbone. Finally, I got a handle on walking by pretending I was weightless and able to float through the night. Milo's breath kept cutting off and rasping. I got closer behind him, ready to catch him if he fell.
