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I hadn’t found what I was looking for. But between Swope’s journals and the file I’d taken from Matthias’s room I had plenty for show and tell. No doubt my pilferage violated all the rules of evidence, but what I’d found would be enough to get things going.

It was just past two A.M. I got behind the wheel of the Seville, adrenalized and hyperalert. Starting up the engine, I organized my thoughts: I’d drive to Oceanside, find a phone and call Milo or, if he was still in Washington, Del Hardy. It shouldn’t take long to notify the proper authorities, and with luck the investigation could commence before dawn.

It was more important than ever to avoid La Vista. I turned the car around in the direction of the utility road and rolled into the dark. I passed the Swope place, Maimon’s nursery, the homesteads and the citrus groves, and had reached the plateau of the foothills when the other car materialized from the west.

I heard it before seeing it — its headlights, like mine, were off. There was just enough moonlight to identify the make as it sped past. A late model Corvette, dark, possibly black, its snout nosing the asphalt. The rumble of an oversized engine. A rear spoiler. Shiny mag wheels.

But it wasn’t until I saw the big fat tires that I changed my plans.

The Corvette turned left. I shot the intersection, turned right and followed, lagging far enough behind to stay out of earshot and struggling to keep the low dark chassis in view from that distance. Whoever was behind the wheel knew the road well and drove like a teenage joyrider, popping the clutch, downshifting around curves without breaking, accelerating with a roar that signaled impending redline.

The road turned to dirt. The Corvette chewed it up like a four-wheeler. The Seville’s suspension shimmied but I held on. The other car slowed at the sealed entrance to the oilfields, turned sharply and drove along the perimeter of the mesa. It accelerated and sped on, hugging the fence, casting an incision-thin shadow against the chain link.

The abandoned fields stretched for miles, as desolate as a moonscape. Moist craters pocked the terrain. The fossils of tractors and trucks rose from the sump. Row after row of dormant wells encased in grid-sided towers erupted from the tortured earth, creating the illusion of a skyline.

The Corvette was there one moment, gone the next. I braked quickly but quietly, and coasted forward. There was a car-sized gap in the fence. The chain link was ragged and curly-edged around the opening, as if it had unraveled under the force of giant shears. Tire tracks etched the dirt.

I drove through, parked behind a rusted derrick, got out, and inspected the ground.

The Corvette’s tires had created dual caterpillars that wove a corridor through convex metal walls: oil drums were stacked three-high, forming a hundred yards of barricade. The night air stank of tar and burnt rubber.

The corridor terminated in a clearing. In the open space sat an old mobile home on blocks. A smudge of light filtered through a single curtained window. The door was unadorned plywood. A few feet away was the sleek black car.

The driver’s door opened. I pressed back, flat against the oil drums. A man got out, arms full, keys dangling from his fingertips. He carried four shopping bags as if they were weightless. Walking to the door of the mobile home, he knocked once, three times, then once again, and let himself in.

He stayed in there for half an hour, emerged carrying an axe, laid it on the Corvette’s passenger seat, and got behind the wheel.

I waited ten minutes after he’d driven away before walking to the door and imitating his knock. When there was no response, I repeated it. The door opened. I looked into wide-set eyes the color of midnight.

“Back so soo—” The straight wide mouth froze in surprise. She tried to slam the door shut. I put my foot in and pressed. She pushed back. I got in and she edged away from me.

“You!” The girl was wild-eyed and beautiful. Her flaming hair had been tied up and pinned. A few fine strands had come loose, haloing the long supple neck. Two thin hoops pierced each ear. She wore cut-offs and a white midriff blouse. Her belly was tan and flat, her legs smooth and miles-long, tapering to bare feet. She’d painted her fingernails and toenails hunter green.

The trailer was partitioned into rooms. We were in a cramped yellow kitchen that smelled of mildew. One of the shopping bags had already been emptied. The other three sat on the counter. She fumbled in the dish drainer, came up with a plastic-handled bread knife.

“Get out of here or I’ll cut you. I swear it!”

“Put it down, Nona,” I said softly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Bullshit! Just like the others.” She held the knife with both hands. The serrated blade made a wobbly arc. “Get out!”

“I know what was done to you. Hear me out.”

She went slack and looked puzzled. For a moment I thought I’d calmed her. I took a step closer. Her young face contorted with hurt and rage.