*
Marty’s anguish at Helen’s death had not allowed him to get a wink of sleep. During a tortured night his futile feelings of unbearable guilt at surviving were eventually submerged under a ferocious will to avenge.
The police had grilled him for three hours, in which time he could tell them precisely nothing of substance. He lost count of the times they asked him about the car that had streaked away. They seemed to relish his account of Helen’s last breath.
All that was left of that wonderful evening was the pitiful look in her eyes as the blood, and life, drained from her. He could still hear the nauseating crunch of each of the three cowardly missiles. He could still hear the girl’s tiny voice; those last, puzzled words as he cradled her smashed body. With the dawn breaking, and his
