Jonathan Beakman was a Level II Reserve Officer with the Los Angeles Police Department, which meant he was armed, fully sworn, and did everything a full-time uniformed officer did, except he did it only two days a month. In his regular life, Beakman taught high-school algebra. His kids weren't particularly interested in the Pythagorean theorem, but they bombed him with questions after his weekend ride in the car.

Trenchard, who had twenty-three years on the job and didn't like music, said, Here's how it goes down we get to the top, we'll leave the car and work down five or six houses on foot, me on one side, you on the other, then go back for the car and do it again. Should go pretty quick like that.

The Fire Department had been through the area, broadcasting an order to evacuate over their public-address system. A few residents already had their cars piled high with clothes, golf clubs, pillows, and dogs. Others stood in their front doors, watching their neighbors pack. A few were on their roofs, soaking their homes with garden hoses. Beakman worried the hosers might be a problem.

What if somebody won't leave?

We're not here to arrest people. We have too much ground to cover.

What if someone can't leave, like an invalid?

First pass, we want to make sure everyone gets the word. If someone needs more help, we'll radio down or come back after we reach the bottom.

Trenchard, ever wise for a man who didn't like music, glanced over.

You okay?

A little nervous, maybe. One of these houses, you watch. Some old lady's gonna have fifteen pugs waddling around. What are we going to do with fifteen pugs?

Trenchard laughed, and Beakman found himself smiling, though his smile quickly faded. They passed a little girl following her mother to an SUV, the girl dragging a cat carrier so heavy she couldn't lift it. Her mother was crying.

Beakman thought, This is awful.

When they reached the top of Lookout Mountain, they started the door-to-door. If the inhabitants weren't already in the act of evacuating, Beakman knocked and rang the bell, then pounded on the jamb with his Maglite. Once, he hammered at a door so long that Trenchard shouted from across the street.

You're gonna knock down the goddamned door! If they don't answer, nobody's home.

When they reached the first cross street, Trenchard joined him. The cross street cut up a twisting break in the ridge and was lined with clapboard cabins and crumbling stone bungalows that had probably been built in the thirties. The lots were so narrow that most of the houses sat on top of their own garages.

Trenchard said, Can't be more than eight or ten houses in here. C'mon.

They split sides again and went to work, though most of the residents were already leaving. Beakman cleared the first three houses easily enough, then climbed the steps to a run-down stucco bungalow. Knock, bell, Maglite.