‘We go out at the next exit, isn’t that right, Nate?’ Claire said. ‘A mile further on.’

‘Thirty-three horses!’ The car wavered a little as Atlas overrode Claire’s instructions. ‘They used what you call a Shenandoah hitch for them. You look out over them – over the backs of them – sea of horseflesh. Six abreast, five rows, three leaders for the team. Line goes back from those three – all the way back to the guy with the reins – me—’

‘You want the next junction, Nate,’ Claire said.

‘Think of the swath you’re running – you got the whole world in your hands, like the song says. You got to start a turn way ahead so the ripple effect hits the wheel horses just right—’

‘This is the junction coming up.’ Claire’s voice was sharp this time. ‘Five hundred yards ahead.’

‘The sickle swings into the wheat. Out again. See? If you’re good enough – if you signal at just precisely the right moment – you can make a right-angle turn. Think of it: thirty-three horses, and a perfect right angle!’

‘Now, Nate! Now,’ Claire shouted. But we had shot past the junction.

Atlas knew nothing – nothing at all – of this meeting between George and his father that I’m describing, nothing of the plans for it, nothing of what followed the plans. My father Rayner knew nothing about it, either. I alone know. George showed no surprise at the announcement that Jonathan had come to kill him. He picked up his glass and stared into it. ‘You never was like the others,’ he said to my grandfather. ‘How you going to do it?’

Jonathan opened his coat and displayed the Smith & Wesson that nestled there in a pool of sweat: College’s Smith & Wesson – College who had not shot the whistling marmot, who was impaled on a railroad coupling and died with his face turned toward the silence and the dark.

‘Well, I’m damned. Seems a good way for the eminent senator to go, don’t it?’ He stuck his fur-covered tongue into the whiskey. ‘Suicide’s out. For me anyways. I’m a fucking federal institution and federal institutions don’t – Assassination, though – that’s beautiful.’ He put the glass down and leaned forward. ‘The question is why? See, like I been saying, for all this show I ain’t—’

‘Why what?’

‘Motive, Johnny old friend. Public likes a motive for the murder of a federal institution.’ He laughed once more, and a shadow of the old contempt suddenly appeared in his eyes. ‘Holy shit, it’s good to see that hatred in your face: makes a man feel alive, being hated – specially by you.’

‘Always wanting something more, aren’t you, George?’ Jonathan put his glass down on the table in front of him. ‘Now I know what you want, perhaps I won’t oblige you after all. This apple juice is fermenting.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Yes, I do. I can smell it. I don’t even—’

‘I don’t mean the goddamned apple juice. Shit! Have a whiskey instead. Then do it. I hurt like hell but I can wait through another drink.’ He scanned Jonathan’s face. ‘Don’t kid me, Johnny. I hurt too much for kidding—’