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if you would arrange to go driving again.”
“Oh, yeah? And how about gunmen?”
“There will probably be even more this time, and better armed.”
“Great,” Harris said. “Sign me up.”
Gaby glared at him. “I think that too many days of being cooped up here have made you crazy.”
“Maybe it’ll be an improvement from when I was sane,” he shot back.

“You want what?” Fergus asked.
“I want the Hutchen again,” Harris said. “I’m stubborn.”
“You mean you’re mad. I haven’t even begun the ­repairs.”
Harris shrugged. “If it’s drivable, it’s what I want.”
Fergus sighed. “Give me a few beats; I have to look over my notes.” He turned away from the madman, sorrowfully shook his head, and walked into the little ­office, closing its door behind him.
Once inside, he kept a nervous eye on the door and picked up the handset of his talk-box double. “Morcy­meath five nine one naught,” he told the operator.
After a minute, he heard the click of connection, but no voice spoke. Fergus said, “It’s me.”
The other voice was low and smooth. “What?”
“He’s coming out again.”
“With anyone?”
“No, alone.” Fergus paused a moment. “He’ll be in the same car as before. It should be even easier to spot. It’s shot up all to Avlann.” He waited a moment longer, but the other voice didn’t speak again. Fergus replaced the handset in his cradle.
He picked up the Hutchen’s key and his notebook and consulted the latter as he walked back out.
“It should carry you,” he said, not looking up. “The Hutchen. But don’t beat it too much about before I can repair it.”
“I won’t,” Jean-Pierre said.
Fergus looked up, confused. Jean-Pierre stood beside Harris, both of them leaning against the wall, looking identically nonchalant.
“Oh. Both of you? Or do you want a different car, ­Highness?”
“In fact, we’ll need the slabside lorry instead.”
Fergus looked in some confusion at Harris. “I’m glad you changed your mind. I’ll just get the key to the lorry.”
Harris shook his head. “Not yet. Stay here. Doc will be here in a second to talk to you. He’s just up in the