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Page 133
chill made her shiver, not entirely from the cold air blowing inside the Bronco. The silence, except for the usual motor and wind noises, was oppressive. But she did not want music or voices from the device Mike called a radio. Still trembling a little, she grasped for something neutral to ask, finally settling on, ''Where do you live, Mike?"
He pointed toward a house- and tree-covered mountain whose base they had nearly reached. "Hollywood Hills." His tone was not unfriendly.
"Is it far?"
"Another fifteen minutes."
Heading up the hill, Mike soon turned onto winding streets so narrow that Abby was not sure the Bronco could pass cars stopped at the sides. A dense forest of housesof wood and glass and adobe of different colorslined the hilly roads, their landscaping lush. In contrast, the steepest, starkest slopes wore a mantle of brown, sparse grasses and clumps of cactus.
The higher the Bronco mounted, the fewer the houses, until only a flimsy wooden rail lined a steep drop-off at the side of the road. A few hardy trees clung to the cliff's edge. Holding herself tense, Abby felt as though Mike and she had driven off the earth and into heaven, for the endless city visible below, with its vast checkerboard of streets and buildings, seemed unreal in its blanket of brown haze. Once she said in wonder, "This area is incredible."
"That's why I like it," Mike said without looking at her. "Or used to. It's so inaccessible hardly

 
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