He parked in front of the local shop and bakery, went in, bought a double espresso, drank it, then got back into his car and made his way to Washington without further sightings of the BMW. He pulled into the driveway of his little cottage, parked behind the hedge, grabbed his duffel and let himself into the house.

“Hello!” he called out. No response. He looked into the kitchen, found it empty, then walked upstairs to the bedroom, the .380 in his hand. At the foot of the bed was a massage table, all set up and draped with sheets. “Celia!” he called out, but there was no answer. Then he felt something hard poking into his back.

“Stick ’em up,” an odd, deep voice said.

Stone raised his hands and was greeted with a girlish giggle. He turned around to find Celia, dressed in a short robe, her hand formed into a gun, laughing uncontrollably.

“You thought I had you, didn’t you?”

He put his arms around her, lifted the hem of the robe with one hand and slapped her hard on the ass with the other. “Bad girl!”

She laughed and kissed him. “Put the gun away. You have time for a drink while you’re getting out of your clothes,” she said. “Then I’m going to give you the best massage you ever had.” She went to the dresser, where a glass, an ice bucket and a bottle of Knob Creek awaited and poured them both a drink.

Stone was already naked when she turned around. She handed him his drink.

“Take a big swallow, then lie facedown on the table.”

“I don’t know if facedown is physically possible at the moment,” he said, pushing against her to show her why.

“Oh, deal with it,” she said, taking his drink and shoving him toward the table. She set the drink on a little shelf, meant for resting his elbows.

Stone climbed onto the table, did some anatomical shifting for the sake of comfort, then settled onto the sheet and put his face into the cradle. Celia had put a straw in his drink, so he was able to sip without lifting his head. She pottered around for a moment, then came toward him.

He felt a trickle of hot oil down his back.

“Too hot?”

“No, just right.” He took another sip of the bourbon from his straw.

She began to work on him, rubbing the hot oil into his back and buttocks and the back of his thighs, paying particular and tender attention to his bruised leg. He had forgotten how strong she was and what good hands she had. She spent three-quarters of an hour kneading every available muscle, then told him to turn over. He took the last sip of the bourbon and followed instructions.

“Well,” she said, “if I had put a sheet over you, you would have supplied the tent pole.”