Pursuit Of Darkness

BICKMAN and Trenchard could smell the fire - it was still a mile away, but the sickly desert wind carried the promise of hell. Fire crews from across town were converging on Laurel Canyon like red angels, as were black and white Adam trucks, Emergency Services vehicles and helicopters dropping water from Van Nuys and Burbank. The helicopters were thumping so low that Beekman and Trenchard could not hear their leader. Beekman put it to his ear. "What did you say?" Their supervisor, a patrol sergeant named Karen Phillips, leaned over to their car and shouted again. "Start at the top of Lookout Mountain. Emergency services are already in place, but you need to make sure these people get out of there. Don't take any s**t. Understood?" Trenchard, who was older and was also driving, shouted back. "Got it." They jumped in line with the fire trucks racing up Laurel Canyon and then up Lookout Mountain Avenue up the steep hill. Once home to rock and roll kings from Mama Cass Elliot to Frank Zappa to Jim Morrison, Laurel Canyon was the birthplace of country rock in the sixties. Crosby, Stills and Nash lived there. So did Eric Burdon, Keith Richards, and more recently Marilyn Manson and at least one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Beekman, who played Fender Telecaster in a police band called Nightstix, considered the place musical magic. Beekman pointed to a small house. "I think Joni Mitchell lived there." "Who cares? You see that sky? Dude, look at that. The f*****g air's on fire!" A charcoal bruise smeared the sky as smoke stretched toward Sunset Boulevard. Starting as a house fire on the crest of the Hollywood Hills, the flames jumped to bushes in Laurel Canyon Park and then spread  with the wind. Three homes have already been lost and more are threatened. Beekman will have plenty of stories for his children when he returns to his daily job on Monday. Jonathan Beekman was a second-level reserve officer with the LAPD, which meant he was armed, sworn in and performed all the duties of a full-time officer, except he only did so two days a month. In ordinary life, Beekman taught high school algebra. His kids weren't particularly interested in Pythagoras' theorem, but they would pepper him with questions after a weekend car ride. Trenchard, who worked for twenty-three years and did not like music, said: "Here's how it goes - we'll go to the top, leave the car and walk five or six houses, me on one side, you on the other, then come back for the car and do it all over again. This way we will cope quite quickly". The fire service drove around the area and broadcast the evacuation order over its public address system. Some residents had already loaded their cars with clothes, golf clubs, pillows and dogs. Others stood at their front doors watching their neighbors gather. Some were on rooftops, watering their homes with garden hoses. Beekman worried that the waterers could become a problem. "What if someone doesn't want to leave?" "We're not here to arrest people. We have too much territory to cover." "And if someone can't leave, like a disabled person?" "First pass, we want to make sure everyone gets the message. If anyone needs help, we'll radio them or come back after we reach the bottom." Trenchard, very wise for a man who didn't like music, looked around. "You okay?"  "A little nervous, I guess. One of these houses, look. Some old lady's going to have fifteen pugs shuffling around. What are we going to do with fifteen pugs?" Trenchard laughed and Beekman smiled too, though his smile quickly disappeared. They passed a little girl following her mother to the SUV, the girl dragging a cat carrier so heavy she couldn't lift it. Her mother was crying. Beekman thought: "This is terrible." When they got to the top of Lookout Mountain, they started going door to door. If residents weren't already in the process of evacuating, Beekman would knock and ring the bell and then bang on the doorposts with his Maglite flashlight. Once he banged on a door so long that Trenchard yelled from across the street. "You break that damn door down! If it doesn't open, then nobody's home." When they reached the first intersection, Trenchard joined him. The intersection cut a winding gap in the ridge and was lined with clapboard huts and crumbling stone bungalows that had probably been built in the thirties of the last century. The plots were so narrow that most of the houses stood on top of their own garages. Trenchard said: "There can't be more than eight or ten houses here. Let's go." They split up again and set to work, even though most of the residents had already left. Beekman cleared the first three houses easily enough, and then climbed the stairs to an abandoned stucco bungalow. Knock, bell, Maglite. "Police officer. Anybody home?" He decided, BICKMAN and Trenchard could smell the fire - it was still a mile away, but the sickly desert wind carried the promise of hell. Fire crews from across town were converging on Laurel Canyon like red angels, as were black and white Adam trucks, Emergency Services vehicles and helicopters dropping water from Van Nuys and Burbank. The helicopters were thumping so low that Beekman and Trenchard could not hear their leader. Beekman put it to his ear. "What did you say?" Their supervisor, a patrol sergeant named Karen Phillips, leaned over to their car and shouted again. "Start at the top of Lookout Mountain. Emergency services are already in place, but you need to make sure these people get out of there. Don't take any s**t. Understood?" Trenchard, who was older and was also driving, shouted back. "Got it." They jumped in line with the fire trucks racing up Laurel Canyon and then up Lookout Mountain Avenue up the steep hill. Once home to rock and roll kings from Mama Cass Elliot to Frank Zappa to Jim Morrison, Laurel Canyon was the birthplace of country rock in the sixties. Crosby, Stills and Nash lived there. So did Eric Burdon, Keith Richards, and more recently Marilyn Manson and at least one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Beekman, who played Fender Telecaster in a police band called Nightstix, considered the place musical magic. Beekman pointed to a small house. "I think Joni Mitchell lived there." "Who cares? You see that sky? Dude, look at that. The f*****g air's on fire!" A charcoal bruise smeared the sky as smoke stretched toward Sunset Boulevard. Starting as a house fire on the crest of the Hollywood Hills, the flames jumped to bushes in Laurel Canyon Park and then spread  with the wind. Three homes have already been lost and more are threatened. Beekman will have plenty of stories for his children when he returns to his daily job on Monday. Jonathan Beekman was a second-level reserve officer with the LAPD, which meant he was armed, sworn in and performed all the duties of a full-time officer, except he only did so two days a month. In ordinary life, Beekman taught high school algebra. His kids weren't particularly interested in Pythagoras' theorem, but they would pepper him with questions after a weekend car ride. Trenchard, who worked for twenty-three years and did not like music, said: "Here's how it goes - we'll go to the top, leave the car and walk five or six houses, me on one side, you on the other, then come back for the car and do it all over again. This way we will cope quite quickly". The fire service drove around the area and broadcast the evacuation order over its public address system. Some residents had already loaded their cars with clothes, golf clubs, pillows and dogs. Others stood at their front doors watching their neighbors gather. Some were on rooftops, watering their homes with garden hoses. Beekman worried that the waterers could become a problem. "What if someone doesn't want to leave?" "We're not here to arrest people. We have too much territory to cover." "And if someone can't leave, like a disabled person?" "First pass, we want to make sure everyone gets the message. If anyone needs help, we'll radio them or come back after we reach the bottom." Trenchard, very wise for a man who didn't like music, looked around. "You okay?"  "A little nervous, I guess. One of these houses, look. Some old lady's going to have fifteen pugs shuffling around. What are we going to do with fifteen pugs?" Trenchard laughed and Beekman smiled too, though his smile quickly disappeared. They passed a little girl following her mother to the SUV, the girl dragging a cat carrier so heavy she couldn't lift it. Her mother was crying. Beekman thought: "This is terrible." When they got to the top of Lookout Mountain, they started going door to door. If residents weren't already in the process of evacuating, Beekman would knock and ring the bell and then bang on the doorposts with his Maglite flashlight. Once he banged on a door so long that Trenchard yelled from across the street. "You break that damn door down! If it doesn't open, then nobody's home." When they reached the first intersection, Trenchard joined him. The intersection cut a winding gap in the ridge and was lined with clapboard huts and crumbling stone bungalows that had probably been built in the thirties of the last century. The plots were so narrow that most of the houses stood on top of their own garages. Trenchard said: "There can't be more than eight or ten houses here. Let's go." They split up again and set to work, even though most of the residents had already left. Beekman cleared the first three houses easily enough, and then climbed the stairs to an abandoned stucco bungalow. Knock, bell, Maglite. "Police officer. Anybody home?" He decided,