“Just stay with her. Give me directions.”

23

I shot onto the freeway at Lincoln. Traffic was gummy and hot-tempered all the way to the 134 east- weekend partyers and RV jockeys coming and going. But by Glendale it had started to thin, and by the time I reached the 210 transition, the highway was mine.

I drove faster than usual, speeding along the northern rim of Pasadena, passing the on-ramp Gina had probably taken two days ago.

Lonely road, made lonelier by the darkness, separating the city from the chalky, high desert at the base of the San Gabriel mountains. Daylight would reveal budget housing developments, industrial outcroppings, an eventual decline to gravel pits and scrubby hills. All of it hidden mercifully by a starless night. A bad night to be looking for someone.

A mile before the Highway 39 exit I slowed down to get a look at the spot where the highway patrolman had seen the Rolls-Royce. The freeway was bisected by window-high cement sound-barriers. The only thing that would have been visible- even to a car fanatic’s eye- was the top of the unmistakable grille chased by a blur of lacquer.

Amazing he’d noticed anything.

But he’d been right.

I exited onto Azusa Boulevard and drove through the outskirts of a town that looked as if it had never forgotten the fifties: full-service filling stations, lodge halls, small storefronts, all dark. Occasional streetlamps brightened some of the signs: TACK AND SADDLE, CHRISTIAN BOOKS, TAX PREPARATION. A present-tense intrusion appeared at the end of the third block. AM-PM mini-mart, open for business but no one was buying and the clerk looked asleep.

I crossed a railroad track and Route 39 turned into San Gabriel Canyon Road. The Seville bounced over old asphalt, speeding through a neighborhood of sad little stucco houses and trailer parks insulated from the street by cinder block walls.

No graffiti. Guess that made it the country. Cars and pickups were parked in peewee front yards. Old cars and pickups, nothing that would ever be a classic. The Rolls would have stuck out like frankness during election year.

As the road began to climb, the houses gave way to larger parcels- boarding stables and horse ranches behind stake-and-post fencing. A Park Service sign a hundred yards up was top-lit, announcing the entrance to Angeles Crest National Forest above small print fire and camping regulations. An information booth just off the road was boarded up. The air began to smell sweet. Before me was two-lane asphalt cutting through granite bulk. The rest, darkness.

Using my brights, the speed bumps in the center of the road, and blind faith to guide me, I drove faster. A couple of miles in, I heard a deep mechanical stutter. It grew louder, deafening, seemed to be descending upon me.

Two sets of cherry-red lights appeared at the top of my windshield, then lowered and ranged directly in front of my field of vision before rising sharply and pulling ahead on a northward trajectory. Twin searchlights began scything the darkness, highlighting treetop and fissure, brushing over the mountainside, exposing momentary flashes of shimmer and luster to the east.

Water. Another peek of it around a curve.

Then a crest of concrete. Concrete piers, a sloping spillway.

I tried to follow the copters’ light-strokes, saw the dam rising a quarter mile above the water table.

Round-edged WPA architecture.

A staked placard by the road: MORRIS DAM AND RESERVOIR. L.A. FLOOD MAINTENANCE DISTRICT.

A long time since floods had needed to be maintained in Southern California; the current drought was four years running. Still, the depth of the reservoir had to be substantial. Hundreds of millions of gallons, inky and secretive.

Milo had said to look for a utility road on the dam side. The first two I passed were blocked by padlocked metal swing gates. Five miles later, as the road looped sharply to accommodate the northern ridge of the reservoir, I saw it: sparking road flares, flashing amber emergency lights atop orange-and-white sawhorses. A convention of vehicles, some idling and huffing out white smoke.

Azuza Police black-and-whites. L.A. Sheriffs. Three Park Service Jeeps. Fire Department paramedic van.

Behind one of the Jeeps, a foreign contingent: the bowl-butt of Rick’s white Porsche. And another white car: Mercedes 560 SEC. Brushed-steel wheels.

A sheriff’s deputy stepped into the middle of the road and halted me. Young, female, blond ponytail. A figure that lent the beige uniform more style than it deserved.

I stuck my head out the window.

“Sorry, sir, the road’s closed.”

“I’m a doctor. Mrs. Ramp’s daughter is my patient. I was asked to be here.”

She asked me my name, requested ID to back it up. After looking at my license, she said, “One moment. Meantime, why don’t you turn off your engine, sir.”

Stepping to the side of the road, she talked into a hand-held radio and returned, nodding.

“Okay, sir, you can just leave your car right here with the keys in, as long as you don’t mind my driving it if I have to.”

“Be my guest.”

“They’re all down there.” Pointing to an open swing-gate. “Be careful, it’s steep.”

The path was a vehicle-wide swath through mesquite and young conifers. Paved, but a slight softness beneath my soles said it had been recent. The blacktop provided some traction, but I still had to walk sideways to maintain balance on the fifty-degree slope.

I sidestepped my way down a quarter mile before I saw the bottom. Flat area, maybe sixty feet square, leading to a small wooden dock that bobbed on the banks of the reservoir. Hazard lanterns had been rigged on high poles, flooding the space with sallow light. People in uniforms crowded around looking at something to the left of the dock, trying to talk over the roar of the copters. From where I was standing none of the conversation was audible.

I continued to descend and saw the object of attention: A Rolls-Royce, its rear end submerged in the water, its front wheels lifted several feet off the ground. The driver’s door was open. Hanging open- hinged near the center-post. The kind of doors old Lincoln Continentals used to have- suicide doors.

I peered into the crowd, saw Don Ramp in shirtsleeves next to Chief Chickering, staring at the car, one hand on his head, the other clutching his trousers, gathering a handful of worsted. As if trying, literally, to hold himself together.

No immediate sign of Milo. Finally I spotted him off to one side, out of the light. He had on a plaid shirt and jeans and his arm was around Melissa. A dark blanket covered her shoulders. Their backs were to the car. Milo’s lips were moving. I couldn’t tell if Melissa was listening.

I made my way down to them.

Milo noticed me coming and frowned.

Melissa looked up at me but remained under his arm. Her face was white and still, like a Kabuki mask.

I spoke her name.

She didn’t respond.

I took both of her hands and gave them a squeeze.

She said, “They’re still under,” in a disembodied voice.

Milo said, “The divers,” in the practiced tone of an interpreter.

One of the helicopters circled lower over the reservoir, using its beam to sketch spheres of light in the black water. The sketches decayed before they were complete. Someone shouted. Melissa yanked her hand free and turned toward the sound.

One of the park rangers held a flashlight near the shoreline. A wet-suited diver surfaced, pulling up his mask and shaking his head. As he stepped completely out of the water, another diver emerged. Both of them began removing their scuba tanks and weight belts.

Melissa made a groaning sound, like gears grinding, then shouted, “No!” and ran over to them. Milo and I went after her. She reached the divers and screamed, “No! You can’t stop now!”