Thomas awoke to the thud and shudder of his Acura plowing through the median. He cried out, hit the brakes, felt the tires churn up turf and hummocks. He sat there for several moments, idling, weeping, until another car pulling onto the shoulder—some Samaritan making sure he was okay, he supposed—reminded him of the police.

And Frankie.

The car bucked and shuddered. The undercarriage sledged through gravel, then he was accelerating down the highway, cringing at the memory of his dream.

It meant nothing.

'Thank God!' Mia cried, running across the lawn into the yellow circle of the driveway lights. 'Thank fucking Gawd!' Thomas popped the car into park. 'Mia,' was all he could say to the face bobbing in his window. The oil-stain smell of the freeway still hung in the air.

'Fuck, Tommy. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!' His Number One Neighbor swatted at tears. 'I so thought you were dead. Jesus Christ, I literally thought you were fucking dead!'

Thomas nodded, stared blankly into Mia's frantic eyes. Control was good—for the moment.

'I need—' Something painful hooked his voice into silence. 'I need your help, Mia. I don't think I can do this alone.'

'Whatever, Tommy! Whatever you need!'

'We have to bring Frankie to Neil.'

'Neil—' Mia began but halted, his expression at once astonished and aghast. Thomas studied his face: the thoughtful drift in the line of his nose, the cynical depth of his crow's feet—all those things that Theodoros Gyges could see, but could never recognize.

The face of a friend.

For no reason either could fathom, they took Bill's ancient Toyota 4x4. 'Feels like sitting on a toilet,' Mia cracked after settling behind the wheel. The cab's floors were incredibly shallow—to increase clearance, Thomas supposed—forcing them to sit with their knees high. 'No wonder Bill takes a dump on me when he gets home.'.

Peekskill was sedate in the manner of shining cars cruising past glowing franchise food outlets. Streetlights kicked like chorus girls across the hood and windshield—a never-ending line of them. Staring into curiously steady hands, Thomas described the afternoon's events the way a journalist might: faithful to the details, indifferent to the implications.

'You shot her?' Mia cried at one point. 'Jeezus, Tommy!'

'Pow,' Thomas said, holding his finger out like a gun.

He could still see her fall back into the cloud of blood and hair. Her gun trailing ceilingward. Her breasts rising with free-fall buoyancy. It seemed that he both wept and cackled, though his face remained professionally blank and to-the-point.

'Are you on drugs?' Mia shouted, sounding for all the world like a tank driver. 'Nawt fucking funny!' He always went Alabama when he was frantic. Always went native. 'You killed an—Oh sweet Christ! You killed her with my gun? He pressed a palm flat against his brow. 'An FBI agent?