Survival Of The Fittest

4

It was less than a half-hour drive, a right turn off Sunset, past the Brentwood intersection with Pacific Palisades. No signs. Sometimes people who love nature don't think other people should disrupt it.

A suburban street lined with middle-sized ranch homes led to a brush-shaded single-lane road that kept narrowing. A school bus would be scraped by branches.

The gate was steel painted ballpark-mustard yellow, latched but not locked. The first sign, orange city-issue, specified visiting hours. Opening time was an hour away. I got out, released the latch, returned to the unmarked, and we drove through more foliage-banked asphalt. We pressed on, rolling on dirty hardpack, now, as the brush turned to pines, cedar, cypress, sycamore. Trees planted so close together they formed deep green walls, nearly black, just the faintest delineation of branch and leaf. Anyone or anything could hide back there.

The road ended in a spoon-shaped clearing. Faded white lines marked off a dozen parking spots and Milo slid into one. Behind the lot was a ten-foot strip of dry, clipped grass upon which sat three rickety picnic tables, a U-drive mower, and several fastened lawn bags, stuffed, shiny-black.

Beyond the grass, more forest.

I followed Milo over the lawn to two signs, one atop the other, marking the mouth of a dirt path that dipped into the trees. Above: NATURE HIKE, PLEASE STAY ON TRAIL. An arrow pointed left. Below, a picture board behind cloudy plastic displayed leaves, berries, acorns, squirrels, rabbits, blue jays, snakes. A warning under the western rattler that when the days grew long and hot, the serpents came crawling out for action.

We began descending. The drop was gentle and the trail was terraced in spots. Soon other paths appeared, steeper, skinnier, branching from the side. The trees remained so dense only short portions of walkway resisted the shadows.

We walked quickly, not speaking. I was imagining, theorizing, and the look on Milo 's face told me he was doing the same. Ten minutes later, he stepped off the trail and entered the forest. The pine smell was much stronger here- almost artificial, like room freshener- and the ground beneath our feet was littered with needles and cones.

We walked for a long time before he stopped at a small clearing that bore no distinction.

Not even a clearing, just the space between huge old pines with gray, corrugated trunks. Trunks all around, like Greek columns. The space felt enclosed, an outdoor room.

A crypt.

Someone's idea of a death chamber… I said so but Milo didn't reply.

I looked around, listened. Bird calls, distant. Insects scattering. Nothing to see but trees. No backroads. I asked him about that.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The forest ends about three hundred yards back, though you can't see it from here. There's an open field, then roads, then mountains, and more roads. Some eventually link up with highways but most dead-end. I traipsed around all yesterday, walking and driving, saw nothing but squirrels, couple of big hawks. Circling hawks, so I stopped to check, maybe there was something else dead down below. Nothing. No other predators.”

I stared in the direction he'd indicated. No breaking light, not even a suggestion of exit.

“What happened to the body?” I said.

“Buried in Israel. The family flew over, stayed for a week or so, came back.”

“Jewish mourning rituals take a week.”

He raised his eyebrows.

I said, “I worked the cancer ward.”

He paced around the clearing, looking huge in the dark, vaultlike space.

“Secluded,” I said. “Only a mile from the bus but secluded. It had to be someone who really knew this place well.”

“Problem is, that doesn't narrow it down very much. It's public access, there are always hikers.”

“Too bad there were none around that day. On the other hand, maybe there were.”

He stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

“The news blackout. How would anyone have known to come forward?”

He thought about that. “Gotta talk to the parents. Though it's probably too late.”

“Maybe you can get them to compromise, Milo. Report the murder without identifying Irit by name. Though I agree, it's unlikely to pay off after all this time.”

He kicked a tree hard, muttered, walked around some more, looked in all directions, said, “Anything else?”

I shook my head and we retraced our steps to the parking lot. The U-drive mower was in use now, a dark-skinned man in a khaki uniform and pith helmet riding back and forth on the grass strip. He turned briefly and kept riding. The brim of the helmet shaded his face.

“Waste of time?” said Milo, starting up the unmarked and backing out.

“You can never tell.”

“Got time to read some of the files?”

Thinking of Irit Carmeli's face, I said, “Plenty of time.”