FORTY-NINEDAZED, BLEEDING. THE motorcycle jacket had protected most of my skin, but my face and hands were shredded from the brush and the rocks.
I lay crunched in a protective ball against the mountain, blood rushing in my ears, dust settling everywhere, the smell of gasoline strong in the air.
I rolled out of the shrubbery and looked back at my handiwork. Wilson’s car had not gone over the side as the over-dramatic part of my mind wanted it to. In the distance there was some commotion at the tollgate, but for the moment no other vehicles were coming this way. In a minute or two emergency vehicles would show up from everywhere.
I tried to stand up, feeling the joints, making sure nothing had been broken, even if everything felt like it had been, but I pushed those thoughts aside. Every
