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.