Stone was up to 160, weaving in and out among cars and trucks, but the traffic was light, and he didn’t kill himself or anyone else. He figured the cops were probably just in time to see the van follow him onto the highway. In the rearview mirror he saw the lights of at least two police cars that had apparently blocked the interstate. He eased off the accelerator and began to slow down. He was decelerating through 120 in the center lane when he saw the motorcycle.

The Harley Hog and its driver had parted company for reasons he did not understand. The driver was doing flips and rolls in the grassy median, and the Hog was skidding along on its side, making sparks. There was a truck to his right and two cars to his left, so he was left with no alternative but to drive over the big machine, braking as hard as he could. His car struck the bike and became airborne.

Everything happened very fast after that; the car was turning end over end, and Stone was straining against his seat belt, his face full of airbags. Then the lights went out.

SIXTY-ONE

People were shouting at one another as Stone slowly came to, upside down, suspended from his seat belt, his arms below his head, deflated airbags everywhere.

The voices seemed to come from a great distance. “He’s coming to!” a man shouted. “We can’t move the car, and I can’t break the window. Get that thing going!”

Stone saw the man kneeling outside his window, the thick glass muffling his voice. Some sort of engine started, something like a chain saw. Stone found the window switches and pressed one. To his surprise his window slid down—or, rather, up. The machine noise became deafening.

The man was shouting something at him, but he couldn’t understand over the noise. Stone thought it better that he take a nap.

When he opened his eyes again they were filled with blue sky, then a man in a uniform leaned over him.

“Is your name Barrington?”

“Yes,” Stone managed to say.

“We’re getting you to a hospital right away,” the cop said. “Is there anybody you want us to call?”

Stone thought. Not Lance. “Mike Freeman, Strategic Services, New York.” He felt himself being lifted, then he went to sleep again.

Stone woke in a darkened room.

“Ah, there you are,” Mike’s voice said from somewhere.

Stone took a deep breath, and it didn’t hurt much. “Turn on the lights,” he said softly.

The blinds opened and sunlight flooded the room. Mike was silhouetted against the window. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you know. You’re woozy because some EMT gave you morphine; I’m not sure why.”

“Well,” Stone said, “it’s pretty rosy in here where I am.”

The electric bed moved Stone into a sitting position. “I could use a drink,” Stone said.

“Later, my friend.”

“Did I break anything?”