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raised in this county and had attended the local college. She was an accountant, though she looked nothing like the tightwad bean-counters at the lab.
    Before long they were deep in the woods. Eric was careful to keep his eyes open for landmarks. How the hell had he gotten so damned lost?
    "What brought you to Ashtabula?"
    "I'm looking for the guy who painted my bike," Eric explained as June pulled her car into a tree lined driveway to the gray two-story house with blue trim. "The paint is damaged in a couple of spots. I want him to fix it."
    "Who is it?" June asked, shutting off her car. "It's a small town, I may know him."
    "His name is Van Man Go," Eric said. They got out of the car.
    "Oh – weird name," June said. "I think I know who you're talking about." She walked to the house with a connecting breezeway between it and the garage. She led him to the garage door.
    "It's probably a take-off of Van Gogh the painter." Eric shrugged. "He did a hell of a paint job. I'm looking forward to meeting him."
    "So where is he?" June fumbled with her keys before she shoved the door open.
    "I asked around, but I couldn't find him. I was heading to Geneva-on-the-Lake when those guys started to chase me."
    Eric followed her into the garage; it was semi-finished with two bays. There were stairs leading up to the attic and a tidy work area beside the stairs. The smell of herbs dominated the air; oil and gasoline was an unwelcome base note. Bundles of plants and oddly shaped gourds hung from the ceiling. There was a grouping of shelves loaded with jars and cans, labeled bottles and plastic bags filled with leaves and powders. The concrete floor was sealed, painted and swept.
    "What did you do to piss those guys off?" She used a conversational tone. "Did you blow past them or something?"
    "No." Eric clamped down on the anger that flared up. "They came up behind me and then tried to run me off the road. They weren't horsing around."
    "But why?" June gave him a puzzled look.
    "You know as much as I do." The cop hadn't believed his story but she was there. Eric didn't know if he envied her naiveté or pitied it. He reminded himself that inside the States was a different world. At times the culture shock felt like a blow to the gut. Months of living in fear, of ambushes and sniper fire, had changed the way he looked at the world. He would never see things the same, ever. Would this ever feel like home again?
    "They meant to kill me," he spoke softly when he wanted to shout at her. "I've been in combat. I've seen it before. When you mean to kill, it is different than just horsing around and being an ass." He took a deep breath, smothering his anger. "You were there. You heard them."
    "Yes. Those guys got out of the truck to – to kill you – or both of us." She swallowed, looking at him with fear in those big innocent eyes. "It was horrible."
    He was about to thank her for her bravery when he saw his bike, covered with a sheet, hidden from view like a dead body. He walked over to it, felt a shock as he got within a foot. The smell of blood and death assaulted him. His hand trembled as he reached for the sheet, terrified at what he would see. Was she wrecked, reduced to scrap metal and shattered plastic?
    After a moment of hesitation, he jerked the sheet away. She gave the impression of a huge wounded beast, crouching in pain. Eric caressed the woman's face on the gas tank, brushed mud from her name, "Cora Cobra." He skimmed his fingers over the mud-caked, gouged plastic fairing.
    "Oh, baby, what did they do to you?" He murmured as he stroked her. Her fairing was badly scratched. Some of those scratches could be buffed out; others would require filler. The plastic side plates were mud-smeared from the impact. Luckily they hadn't cracked.
    "There are cleaning supplies under the shelf and hot water over there." June pointed to the faucet. Her eyes glittered with jealousy. "I've got to let the dogs out."
    "Women just don't get it." Eric pulled