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and let out a loud lung full of air.
    "No wonder you look like hell. You've got to get your life together, man."
    "Get my life together?"
    "I know you. You're gonna fall into this work thing and one day you'll wake up and you'll be sixty. And you know what you'll have done?"
    "I'm sure you're going to tell me."
    "You'll have spent your life pursuing enough money to buy a bunch of crap you didn't need."
    He nodded slowly and took a bite of his sandwich, trying to force down the image of the file that had suddenly crashed back into his mind.
    "Somebody's got to work, Darby. You know, keep the streets safe, build piece-of-shit vans for climbers to drive, fly airplanes to Borneo."
    She shook her head slowly, making a slice of carrot wave back and forth until she sucked it all the way into her mouth.
    "Yeah, but it doesn't have to be us. Look at you, man. It's killing you.
    I can tell. I'm going to France next month. Francois just bought a house within hiking distance to the cliffs at Buoux. He says I can set up a tent in his backyard and stay as long as I want. Why don't you just quit and come with me? We'll get a couple of cheap courier tickets over there, then we can pretty much live for free."
    "I can't just quit, Darby. Life's a little more complicated than that "Is not." She finished off the rest of the sandwich in one Herculean bite and chewed furiously.
    "Tell you what." Chew.
    "Why don't you blow off work for a couple of days and come to the New River Gorge with me?"
    Chew.
    "We'll do a few routes, drink some beer by a nice campfire." Chew.
    "Give me a chance to break you of this herd mentality you've developed since I've been gone."

Free Fall (2000)[1]

    *****
    I can appreciate that suspended FBI agents don't rate limos, but I figured I'd do better than a golf cart," Beamon said, half to himself and half to the back of the driver's head. He took one more shot at adjusting himself into a comfortable position in the cramped backseat and then just gave up.
    "No one rates a limo, Mr. Beamon." The driver glanced in his rearview mirror for a moment and then returned his attention to the congested Georgetown street.
    "You've probably heard that Senator Hallorin is kind of a stickler for saving gas. This car not only gets great mileage, but it actually runs on natural gas."
    Beamon knew all that, of course--Hallorin had made damn sure everyone in America did. He had turned the image of his six and a half foot, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame unfolding from the back of these underpowered, propane-propelled vehicles into a cornerstone of his presidential campaign, softening the impact of his one dollar per gallon gas tax proposal with surprising effectiveness.
    "It's amazing, really," the driver continued in a monotone that suggested he had been forced to memorize this little speech.
    "Cheap, environmentally safe, and all you lose is a tiny bit of acceleration. You don't even notice it after a couple of weeks."
    "Uh, huh." Beamon reached for the one amenity that was included with the car: a small phone set into the armrest between the front seats.
    He had his own cell phone in his pocket, but what the hell. Hallorin could afford it.
    He gazed lazily out the window as they drove along M Street. It was only about eight o'clock, but the sidewalks were nearly deserted. Many of the bars and shops he remembered from his tenure in D. C. were gone, victims of the hot air finally exploding from America's economy. The large picture windows that before had framed expensive clothes and yuppie revelers were now dark and dominated by tasteful "for rent" signs.
    "Hello?"
    The woman's voice at the other end of the line instantly relieved some of the tension he was feeling about being called to a mysterious meeting with one of the country's most powerful men. Strangely, though, that sense of relief worried him a little bit.
    "Hello?" the voice repeated.
    "Hey, Carrie."
    "Mark! I've been trying to reach you at the hotel. Another hour and I was