I’d just made an impromptu trip to Beverly Hills and the last thing I wanted to do was hit the road again, but if Pete had driven to Burning Oaks, I’d have to do the same. While I continued to whine internally, I was outwardly preparing for the inevitable. I hauled out my map of California, spread it on my kitchen counter, and decided on a route. This was a two-hour drive at best on winding back roads, which were my only choice. I’d take the 101 south as far as the 150 and then head east. Where the 150 met Highway 33, I’d drive north and east on an irregular path that would deposit me in Burning Oaks.

I retrieved my overnight case from the car and replenished my supply of sundries. This time I packed a change of clothes, including three pairs of underpants and the oversize T-shirt I wear as a “negligee.” I added two paperback novels and a hundred-watt lightbulb. I was prepared for anything. Before I went to bed, I reclaimed the mailing pouch from its hiding place in Henry’s garage.

I still carried the grid Pete had constructed with its alphanumerical code. The paper was in my shoulder bag along with Henry’s translation, which had netted me the list of six women’s names. Taryn Sizemore I knew. In addition to Lenore Redfern’s name, there was also Shirley Ann Kastle’s, she being his former high school sweetheart. Both were from Burning Oaks. The three remaining names would have to wait. Phyllis Joplin I knew about, which left Susan Telford and Janet Macy. I’d tend to them when I got back.

• • •

In the morning, I slipped a note under Henry’s door before I hopped in my car. It was by then 7:45 and I’d been through my usual exercise, shower, and breakfast routine. On the way out of town, I filled the tank with gas and then headed south, overnight bag on the passenger seat. I didn’t expect to be gone long enough to utilize the change of clothes, but I didn’t want to be caught short.

During the early portion of the drive, I was traversing the Los Padres National Forest, which covers 175 million acres, spread out over 220 miles south to north. The road I was on climbed from sea level to an altitude of 7,000 feet. To speak of the national “forest” doesn’t nearly convey the reality of the land, which is mountainous and barren, with no trees at all in this portion of the interior.

On either side of the road, I could see wrinkled stretches of uninhabitable hills where the chaparral formed a low, shaggy carpet of dry brown. Spring might be whispering along the contours, but without water there was very little green. Pockets of wildflowers appeared here and there, but the dominant color palette was a muted gray, dull pewter, and dusty beige.

The descent from the summit carried me into the westernmost reaches of the central valley. The big draw in the area was its recreational waterway, which had all but disappeared with the onset of the drought. All I saw were the wooden docks that extended onto an apron of cracked mud. Where the waters had receded, the metal dome of a partially submerged car sat like an island, baking in the sun. Beyond, in the empty channel that had once carried a tributary, there was only more mud and long sloping banks of rock, exposed now after years of being hidden. Wide flat fields, bordered by distant mountains, awaited spring planting. The drought had tapped out all the natural springs, and the man-made irrigation systems were silent. I missed the reassuring fft-fft-fft of water cannons firing tracers out over newly sown fields.