“Several colors of black, blue and yellow, thank you, each indicative of a level of pain.”

“Take your pills.”

“Don’t worry; the minute I’m through driving for the day.”

“See you Sunday night at Elaine’s?”

“If I don’t stay until Monday morning.”

“Don’t wear yourself out up there.”

“You’re as bad as Joan. Bye.” Stone hung up, grabbed his duffel and headed for the garage. Halfway out of the room he stopped, went back to his dressing room, opened the safe and took out his little Colt Government .380 auto, a holster and two magazines. He put the holster on his belt, slapped in a magazine, racked the slide, flipped on the safety, holstered the pistol and put the spare magazine in his pocket. He checked his wallet to be sure he had his Connecticut carry license, then headed for the garage again.

Third Avenue was jammed with cars headed uptown for the bridge, so he turned west and fought his way across town toward the West Side Highway. By the time he reached it it was after three o’clock, but at least traffic was moving pretty well, at least until he encountered a backup because of a fender-bender. Once past that he zoomed along for all of two minutes before the backup at the turn for the George Washington Bridge slowed him down again, but once past that he was driving at speed again. Farther north, on the Saw Mill River Parkway, he switched on the illegal-in-New-York-State fore-and-aft radar detector and let the Mercedes E55 out a little on the winding road, enjoying the 5.5-liter turbocharged engine and the superb suspension and brakes. Then he remembered the white BMW M6 coupe and started checking his rearview mirror.

Once he thought he caught sight of such a car, but he quickly left it behind. After he joined I-684 north, the fun was over for a while—too many New York State troopers. The radar detector constantly beeped, and he was glad he’d slowed down.

He took I-84 east to the turnoff for Route 7 north and to its end. From there, he was on country roads again, and that was when he found the white M6 in his mirror, staying well back but there.

Once free of some local traffic, he accelerated up a fairly straight stretch of Connecticut roadway, across a bridge, past an old mill, then right on Wewaka Brook Road. Half a mile later, he turned into a friend’s driveway, drove up a hill, flew into his friend’s garage, then got out of the car and peeped at the road. The M6 passed in a white blur with a howl. Stone got back into his car, reversed his route and drove into Bridgewater.