Jack watched his face as he threw. Not much was visible under the knitted cap pulled down to his pale eyebrows and above the navy peacoat collar turned up around his fuzzy cheeks, but there was a wild light in Ed’s eyes as he threw his snowballs, and a smile as he saw them smash against the windshields. He was getting a real thrill out of this.

That didn’t mean Ed was the one who had dropped the cinderblock that killed his mother. He could be just another one of a million petty terrorists who got their jollies destroying or disfiguring something that belonged to someone else. But what he was doing was dangerous. The road below was slippery. The impact of one of his special snowballs—even if it didn’t shatter the windshield—could cause a driver to swerve or slam on his breaks. And that could be lethal under the present conditions.

Either that had never crossed Ed’s mind, or it was what had brought him out tonight.

It could be him.

Jack fought to think clearly. He had to find out. And he had to be absolutely sure.

Jack made a disgusted noise. “Fucking waste of time. I don’t think we even cracked one.” He turned to go. “See ya.”

“Hey!” Ed said, grabbing his arm. “I said we’re just getting started.”

“This is diddley-shit.”

“Follow me. I’m a pro at this.”

Ed led him down the road to where a 280-Z was parked. He opened the trunk and pointed to an icy cinderblock wedged up against the spare tire.

“You call that diddley-shit?”

It took all of Jack’s will to keep from leaping upon Ed and tearing his throat out with his teeth. He had to be sure. What Jack was planning left no room for error. There could be no going back and apologizing for making a mistake.

“I call that big trouble,” Jack managed to say. “You’ll get the heat down on you somethin’ awful.”

“Naw! I dropped one of these bombs last month. You shoulda seen it—perfect shot! Right in somebody’s lap!”

Jack felt himself begin to shake. “Hurt bad?”

Ed shrugged. “Who knows? I didn’t hang around to find out.” He barked a laugh. “I just wish I coulda been there to see the look on their faces when that thing came through the windshield. Blam! Can you see it?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Let’s do it.”

As Ed leaned over to grab the block, Jack slammed the trunk lid down on his head. Ed yelled and tried to straighten up, but Jack slammed it down again. And again. He kept on slamming it down until Ed stopped moving. Then he ran to the bushes, where twenty feet of heavy duty rope had lain hidden for the past month.

“WAKE UP!”

Jack had tied Ed’s hands behind his back. He had cut a large opening in the cyclone wire and now held him seated on the top rung of the guard rail. A rope ran from Ed’s ankles to the base of one of the guard rail supports. They were on the south side of the overpass; Ed’s legs dangled over the southbound lanes.