Sarah Durham had driven for three long hours. She knew she"d taken a wrong turn, and now found herself irrevocably lost. What should have passed as a pleasant drive through the picturesque scenery of the Transylvanian Alps had turned into a nightmare almost from the minute the rain began to fall. In fact `fall" would be entirely the wrong description to apply to the deluge that had descended within an hour of her setting off on the road across the mountains from Sibiu to Brasov. Within less than two minutes it had become apparent to Sarah that the wipers on the battered old Dacia she"d hired for the journey had proved themselves woefully unsuited to their task. The car, though sturdy and designed to withstand the most robust of East European winters, appeared badly in need of some tender l
