“Trouble?” asked a basso-profundo voice when they were five yards apart.
“You might say that,” de la Roche downplayed the thing. “Car’s propped up on a rock at the bottom of the hill,” he half-turned and gestured behind him.
“Let’s take a look,” the figure said, striding past him, amazingly sure-footed on the treacherous surface.
De la Roche had the impression of a big, beefy man. Young. Confident. Capable. “It’s disabled,” he called, turning to follow the yellow oilcloth raincoat.
“Blocking the road?” The voice was muffled by the failing rain.
“Halfway. Rear end’s in the ditch; front’s sticking out some.”
“Better do something about it.”
The man preceded him down the slope, digging in the heels of his calf-high waders to keep his sliding to a minimum. De la Roche almost plowed into
