Absolutely, Positively

glanced at the notes he had made during Fergus Rice's last phone call. “This is it.”

    “Take your time,” Chuck said. “You're welcome to look all you want for your fifty bucks.”

    “Thanks.”

    “Let me know when you're finished. I'll be in my office.”

    “Right.” Harry did not glance at Chuck as the bulky man trundled off toward the aging trailer that served as an office. He could not take his attention off the Ford.

    He had not even touched the car, but already he could tell that there was something not quite right about it. Despite its crumpled condition, the Ford should have felt familiar. Only a few days ago it had been used in an attempt to force his Sneath P2 over a cliff. Admittedly, he'd only seen it in a series of disjointed snapshots, first in his rearview mirror and then as it flashed past the Sneath. He'd had his hands full with the task of keeping his vehicle from jumping the guard rail. But still…

    “What is it, Harry?” Molly asked.

    He glanced at her. “I don't know yet. Maybe nothing except the obvious.”

    She hugged herself. “It's a mess, isn't it? We're looking at a car that went over a cliff. A man died in that Ford. It gives me chills just to look at it.”

    Harry said nothing. The knowledge that Wharton Kendall had died in the car was not what was making him so uneasy. Something else was niggling at him. The wrongness emanated from the car in subtle waves.

    And he wasn't even in one of his moods of intense concentration.

    It occurred to Harry that the part of his brain that was good at what he preferred to callreasoned insight had become unaccountably more sensitive lately. Ever since he had started making love to Molly, to be precise.

    The realization dumbfounded him. He stared at the blue Ford and wondered what was happening to him. His imagination was running wild, that was the problem. Or maybe it was much worse, much more ominous than that.

    The old dread unfurled deep inside. Maybe he really would go crazy one of these days.

    “Harry?” Molly touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

    “Of course I'm okay. Why shouldn't I be?” Harry willed the old fear back into its hiding place. He summoned up Molly's reassuring advice on the subject.The very fact that you can even wonder if you're going crazy means you aren't crazy . He took a savage grip on his self-control. “I'm trying to think.”

    “Sorry.”

    Harry deliberately turned away from the concern he saw in her eyes. He would apologize later for his short temper. He would also put off worrying about the possibility of being fitted for a straitjacket until some later time. He had been postponing that particular concern for years. It could wait a little longer.

    He made himself take a careful look at the ruined Ford. The guts of the dead beast were exposed to view. The hood had been ripped off in the crash. The doors hung open at odd angles, as though the bones inside the metal skin had been broken. The windows were empty of glass. They reminded Harry of sightless eyes.

    He walked slowly around the Ford.

    “What are you going to do?” Molly asked.

    Harry rolled up his sleeves. “Just look things over.”

    “Everything was smashed when the car went over the cliff. How will you know if any damage you discover today was done before the accident?”

    Harry leaned over the fender and studied the dented valve cover. “I'm not sure I'll be able to tell a damned thing. I just want to take a close look.”

    “Sort of get a feel for the situation?” Molly suggested innocently.

    Harry ignored her. Very cautiously he allowed himself to concentrate as he leaned farther over the crumpled fender.

    The sense of wrongness eddied around him, lapping gently at his senses. But it was not coming from inside the engine compartment. He stepped back from the fender. He tried to be subtle as he took a deep breath, but he could feel Molly watching him very intently.

    Something was definitely not right.

    After a few seconds, when he was sure he had himself firmly under control, he got into the driver's seat. He surveyed the damage to the interior. The steering wheel was gone. The glass cover on the instrument panel was a spider's web of tiny cracks. He bent down to examine the brake pedal.

    Again the wrongness assailed him. But it was not as strong inside the car as it had been when he had been standing near the front fender.

    “Something wrong with the brakes?” Molly asked expectantly.

    “I don't