The drive was beautiful, the tunnel a perfect monument to federal foly. Boyd enjoyed racing from end to end while I stood in the middle and watched.

Though the outing cheered me, the improvement in my mood was short-lived. Just after leaving the park, my engine gave an odd ping. Two miles before the town line it pinged again, chunked repeatedly, then segued into a loud, ratchety, persistent noise.

Veering onto the shoulder, I cut the motor, draped my arms around the steering wheel, and rested my forehead on them, my temporary lift in spirits replaced by a sense of despondency and anxiety.

Was this ordinary car trouble, or had someone tampered with my engine?

Boyd laid his chin on my shoulder, indicating that he, too, found it a disturbing question, and not entirely paranoid.

We'd been like that a few minutes when Boyd growled without raising his head. I ignored this, assuming he'd spotted a squirrel or a Chevy. Then he shot to his feet and gave three sharp woofs, an impressive sound inside a Mazda.

I looked up to see a man approaching my car from the highway side. He was smal, maybe five foot three, with dark hair combed straight back. He wore a black suit, perfectly fitted, but probably new in the early sixties.

Drawing close, the man raised knuckles to tap the glass, but puled back as Boyd erupted again.

'Easy, boy.'

I could see an old pickup angled onto the shoulder across the road, the driver's door open. The truck looked empty.

'Let's see what the gentleman has to say.'

I cracked my window.

'Are you il, ma'am?' The voice was rich and resonant, seeming to come from deeper inside than the smal stature alowed. The man had a hooked nose and intense dark eyes, and reminded me of someone, though I couldn't recal whom. From his tone I could tel Boyd was thinking Caligula.

'I may have thrown a rod.' I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed like an engine noise sort of thing to say.

'May I offer assistance?'

Boyd growled suspiciously.

'I'm on my way into town. It would be no trouble to drop you at a repair shop, ma'am.'

Sudden synapse. The man looked and sounded like a miniature Johnny Cash.

'If there's a garage you can recommend, I'l cal ahead and ask for a tow.'

'Yes, of course. There's one right up the road. I have the number in my glove compartment.'

Boyd was having none of it.

'Shh.' I reached back and stroked his head.

The man crossed to his truck, rummaged, then returned with a slip of thin yelow paper. Holding my cel phone in clear view, I lowered the window another few inches and accepted it.