IF I HAD TO MAKE a list of three things that were rare to see in Woodstock, they would be a new Chevy or Ford sedan, a guy between thirty and forty who was neither a Brooklyn hipster nor a musician moonlighting as a carpenter, with the third being that guy, driving that car, wearing pressed chinos and a pressed shirt.

It was a Chevy Malibu. Nice and clean, this year’s or last, no bumper stickers, nothing hanging from the rearview mirror. Virginia plates. He looked like he’d do thirty-five sit-ups in one minute, twenty-four push-ups without stopping, 300 meters in a single minute, a mile and a half in under thirteen minutes. The FBI standards for his age group. He had a fresh shave and a Quantico haircut. Even the pressed chinos and a pressed shirt.

No wonder Sly had pegged him as a Fed.

There were two things to wonder about. Why was he watching me, and why did he want me to know it? If he hadn’t been aware how obvious he was to start with, he should have been after two minutes in town. He could have gone to Kingston, rented a Subaru, and come back disguised as a lesbian. That’s a Subaru joke, not a lesbian joke. The car of choice in Woodstock, as long as I’ve been here, has always been the least expensive, truly reliable, four-wheel or all-wheel drive vehicle. For obvious reasons. It used to be the Isuzu Trooper. Now it’s a Subaru. Which also happens to be the car of choice for lesbians. The reasons for that are not at all obvious.

I’d spotted him following me at least once. He didn’t seem to be working too hard at it. I thought he might have put some kind of tracking device on my car.

When I got home, I jacked it up and crawled underneath with a flashlight.

—

In recent years, I’ve grown used to silence. Now, the minute I’m on my back in the dirt with 3,500 pounds looming over me, my cell phone rings. Allison. She got right to the point. I liked that about her. She said, “I think someone’s watching me.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. If I was sure that’s what I would have said. I could even be…you know…paranoid…but I think so.”

“Just be careful,” I said. “Very careful.”

“Yeah,” she said, like maybe she wouldn’t.

“Come on.”

Silence.

I said, “For a couple of days. Then I’ll come down. Hang out and watch your back. If that will make you feel better.”

“It would. Saturday would be good.”

I told her, “Be more cautious than usual until then.”

“Alright. Yes.”

—