For no apparent reason a bleak thought crossed his mind and Hal wondered if he could get along without her...

No.

It would be simpler by far to get along without his legs, his hands, his eyes.

Without his heart.

Two hours out of D.C., he stopped for gas in Cresthill, searching out the tiny local liquor store and startling the owner with his order for a magnum of champagne. The locals were inclined to beer and Cutty Sark, but once the man recovered, he allowed that there should be a bottle somewhere out back. There was, and Hal was beaming as he pushed a pair of twenties toward the register, retreating with his prize before the owner had a chance to calculate his change. It was already dark, and he was in a hurry now.

Another two-and-a-half miles, and he took the cutoff on an unpaved washboard road that wound between the looming trunks of conifers, ascending toward a tiny clutch of cabins overlooking Cresthill and the northern Blue Ridge slopes. The cabins, five in all, were spaced around a sort of cul-de-sac, but trees and natural topography preserved a sense of isolation. Rarely were the cabins simultaneously occupied, and even with a group or families in residence, they might pass days without encountering a neighbor.

Brognola dropped the Buick into low and made the final fifty yards, past cabins standing empty, dark against the trees. His headlights probed around a curve and picked out Helen's station wagon, parked in the carport of the four-room structure. Hal nosed in behind the other vehicle, already marking lights that glowed through the curtained windows. He shut down the Buick's engine and climbed out with his bottle of champagne and his briefcase.