“Did you know that Sebastian Vizcaíno discovered this river in 1602?” Nina asked Paul. “Four hundred years ago. I mean, Plymouth was still a gleam in English eyes back then. When I studied American history they never mentioned how old the European presence really is in California.”

“And why do you think that is?” Paul asked.

“American historians are Anglophiles?”

“They do all have those Waspy surnames.”

“And they all come from the East Coast.”

“Although we did study the California missions,” Paul reminded her.

“Hmm. We did. I think you just blew my theory. But this happened before Junípero Serra. It was the winter of 1602, and Vizcaíno came limping into Carmel Bay in his little wooden ship. And he found a torrent. A white-water torrent. The Carmel River gets very high during wet winters, Paul.”

“So?” Hitchcock saw a black Scottie in the next car as they sat at a traffic light, and barked and hung his paws over the edge of the window. Paul pressed on the electric window switch and it started up, causing Hitchcock to give a yelp of consternation and fall back into the car.

“You didn’t have to scare him like that,” Nina said.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Grr. He’s my dog. He is not your dog to correct.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. He’s your dog. So. About Vizcaíno.”

“So Vizcaíno reported to his superiors about this glorious bay he had found with all the fresh water anyone could ever want. He said to look for a cataract pouring into the ocean on a white-sand beach. So the next expedition looked for it and couldn’t find it, and the next, and the next. Because the ships came in the summer and there wasn’t any river. As a result, the Carmel River wasn’t discovered again for a hundred more years, by which time San Francisco had already become the main commercial center in California.”

“And your point is?”

“Well, this road would be wall-to-wall skyscrapers. The equivalent of the Financial District in downtown S.F.”

“So we lucked out? That’s your point?”

“Or maybe the river just delayed the inevitable with that little disappearing act,” Nina said. “There sure is a lot of new development along here, Paul.”

About fifteen miles inland the hills around them came closer and closer as the valley narrowed. They came to Carmel Valley Village, entryway to the enormous Los Padres National Forest. Stopping for coffee at the River Deli, they sat outside at a rickety plastic table to take in the rays, Hitchcock at Nina’s feet. Across the empty street, a woman in a wheelchair, a tissue clutched between her teeth, led by a stalwart dog, rolled peacefully down the sidewalk toward the Village Market.

“I remember her,” Nina said. “I’m glad to see she’s still shopping on her own. I wonder if she still lives at Robles Vista.”

“I thought Crockett said it was being torn down for the subdivision that got torched in the first fire. Green River, that was the name of it.”

“But, remember, he said that some of the Robles Vista tenants refused to be relocated. I don’t think they have torn Robles Vista down yet. It’ll be a shame when they do. The Village won’t be the same without them. They were always part of the scene, the blind guy with the beard tapping his way across the road to the deli, the people in wheelchairs checking out books at the library.”

“Maybe one of them agreed with you enough to pour out some kerosene farther down the hill toward the river and take out the model home,” Paul said.

“I suppose we should check Robles Vista out. Where in the world will they go? Salinas?”

Paul shook his head and said, “Salinas is cheaper than here, but it is getting expensive. Look around the Village and you’ll find some spiffy new restaurants. Older businesses can’t pay the big rents. Lots of wealthy retirees have been moving out here instead of Carmel or Pebble Beach. It’s gotten as upscale as Carmel.”

“Ben Cervantes is no rich retiree, and he lives in the Village.”

“No, and he’s struggling too, I bet,” Paul said. “Off we go. A dirt road turns into a trail above Hitchcock Canyon”-the dog’s ears perked up-“which was the jumping-off place for the third fire.”

Nina picked up Paul’s camera. “Wish told me exactly where he and Danny parked. Let’s do it.”

“Good thing they caught it fast,” Paul said as they drove down a hill, over a bridge, and up winding roads through neighborhoods of homes with wood-shingle roofs sheltered in the oaks. The road narrowed to a shady lane and they crept along over a series of small bridges across a meandering creek. The oaks shaded them but the day felt even hotter because the air was so still.

Each house had a unique character. The flowers and rocky cliffs behind were as beautiful as Nina remembered, but she could see that gentrification had changed Hitchcock Canyon. The expensive new glassy geometrical homes perched here and there just didn’t fit the weathered older, more modest places.

A couple of miles in, Southbank Road forked. They followed the right fork and continued uphill in the dirt. Paul adjusted the gears of the Bronco into four-wheel drive and they powered on, raising a plume of dust behind. Soon they came to a last group of new and expensive homes with glorious views, the end of the road. A trail continued up toward the crest of the hill, and they saw what the fire had wrought.

A black, still-smoky swath of forest stretched above them. They got out, not bothering to leash Hitchcock, and Nina swung the pack on her back, tied on the scarf, and pulled on her gloves. As hot as she was, she’d probably die of heat prostration, but she preferred that to dying of itching from poison oak.

“C’mon, mutt,” Paul said. Nina, gratified, saw that Hitchcock looked her way for a nod, then waited for her to attach the leash to his collar.

They hiked up the trail where Wish and Danny had gone, Hitchcock pulling hard on the leash. Black tree trunks and fallen charred limbs littered the ground. Hollows and habitats lay exposed. No birds, no squirrels. No green anymore, not even the dry olive-green of central California.

“A lot of acreage burned,” Paul said, walking along with his eyes on the trail. “There might have been footprints, but the firefighters had to come through here to fight the fire. It’s all scuffed up. Stinks, doesn’t it?”

“Guess it even burned up my favorite plant,” Nina said. But she kept the scarf on.

Paul took photos of the trail, the skyline, the devastation. “Wish asked me what kind of camera to get, so I told him about my Canon,” he said, stopping just ahead to look at a tree branch that held a torn piece of yellow cloth. “He was doing so well at the office. I had him working a special detail with the security staff at the La Playa Hotel. They liked him and asked me if he might want full-time work. He was helping me with the paperwork on a divorce case I’m handling too.”

“I remember when he first came into my office in South Lake Tahoe,” Nina said. “He came to pick Sandy up, and he looked around the office like it was the most glamorous thing on earth.”

“What I always liked about Wish is, he’s enthusiastic.”

“We’ll get him out,” Nina said.

“Maybe Sandy can scare up the bail money from one of her pink-cheeked fellows. She’s in Washington, after all.”

“It’s a ridiculous amount. But if I go in again and ask for a reduction, this judge might make it a no-bail instead.”

“Salas? I’ve heard he’s erratic.”

“Well, you’ll hear a lot of rumors,” Nina said. “Just because he happens to be a Latino.”

“You’re standing up for him? I thought you said he called you a smart-mouth in open court.”

“It’s kind of refreshing. I was being slightly, uh-”

“Mouthy?”

“Forthright. Perhaps unduly forthright. Anyway, he’s got to be under a lot of pressure. So what have you got there?”