What woke him was not the pain in his side, though that was there, but the cold; the deep, damp marrow-freezing cold of an early grave. He thought he must have finally made the fatal error when he tried to move and nothing worked. The Jag was parked, askew, on the verge of a deserted gravel road barely wide enough to accommodate a U-turn. Where the hell was he? TJ tried to recall pulling off the highway, onto this little used spur, but nothing came. That was bad -- he'd better get out of here, get somewhere safe. He began an argument with himself over whether it was worth it. The voice that sounded most reasonable insisted that a good sleep was what he really needed. But a squeaking, nearly hysterical opponent pointed out that it would be his last if he did, asshole. He listened thoughtfully to the two voices for a while, then tried once more to move his arm -- to reach the ignition key. This time the arm moved, though his hand shook badly. If he could turn on the engine, at least the car's heater would warm him up. Shock. The body's temperature drops when in shock. Put a blanket on the poor son-of-a-bitch. No, no, not over his face, you idiot; he's not dead yet.

Using all his strength, he managed to turn the tiny silver key. The Jag's engine rumbled into life and waves of cold air rushed at him, making him shiver inside the leather jacket. He waited, concentrating on the sound of the engine, and soon he began to tell himself the air was feeling warmer, though he admitted it could be wishful thinking. God he was tired. His side was starting to throb and he could feel it with every heartbeat, jarring against his chest. But at least he was awake. He put the car in gear and turned it, wincing with the effort. After two tries, cutting and filling, his side screaming with the movement of the wheel, it was finally headed back toward the highway. A roadsign appeared through the fog. "TROON - 5 MI." Troon. A wide spot, not in the road, but about three miles northeast of it. Nothing was likely to be open this time of night, but he could find a phone, surely. If he had to wake somebody up, he would find one. TJ thought of Lisbee again. He could hear her voice, rising with impatience, like a harried mother trying to reason with a stubborn child. "Of course it's yuppie TJ, but a cellular phone is almost a necessity in your business. You wouldn't have to drive around talking to your stock broker all day just because it's in the car. Emergency use only. And that, at least, would be a legitimate business expense." He smiled at the recollection, acknowledged her foresight, and gunned the Jaguar, which leapt reassuringly to life. He had to get somewhere safe. And soon. * * * A shape began to appear, a car shape, sleek and long. Some sort of sports car. Cyrus walked stiff-legged at her side. As she approached, Willa heard an eerie sound coming from the vehicle. She stopped for a moment, childish dread beginning to overtake her, then went on mentally castigating herself for being foolish. When she got closer, the sound became a voice, mumbling, incoherent. There was someone in the car. The window was down and he was talking to himself. Maybe it was just some harmless drunk. With the dog beside her she came within a few feet of the car's door. She could hear snatches of words now. They didn't sound slurred, and there was no trace of that acrid second-hand alcohol stench. "Can't Lisbee, . . .you'd be on the damned thing constantly . . .besides, it's just not my style." Willa saw a large man seated in the driver's seat, left arm resting on the open window ledge. His head was bent forward as if he could not manage to hold it up. "Who are you. What do you want?" Her voice sounded shaky in her ears, not firm as she had commanded it. The man looked up, eyes squinting in the beam from her flashlight. "Thank you, Lord," he said clearly. "Lady, please. Got to use your phone." "What are you doing here?" Her hand shook, causing the flashlight beam to skitter on the gravel between them. "Jesus, lady, please," the man said softly, almost reassuringly. "I'm bleeding here." Willa stepped back as he opened the car door and tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he slumped to the ground. "Oh dear God," Willa whispered as Cyrus rushed forward.