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left them temporarily speechless, they walked back to the B&B, grabbed the BMW’s keys from the room, and set off for Princess Anne, heading northwest up Highway 12 to the outskirts of Salisbury before turning southwest onto Highway 13. The evening’s earlier clear skies had given way to low rain clouds and a fine, steady mist fell on the BMW’s windshield.
    Remi frowned. “It feels like you’re going too fast.” She enjoyed the BMW, but not the latent race-car-driver urge it brought out in her husband.
    “Dead on the speed limit. Don’t worry, Remi. Have I ever crashed?”
    “Well, there was that time in Mumbai—”
    “Oh, no. If you’ll recall, the tires were almost bald and we were being chased by a very angry man in a very big dump truck. Plus, I didn’t crash. I just got . . . sidetracked.”
    “That’s one way of putting it.”
    “An accurate description, I’d say.”
    “Okay, then, there was the time in Scotland. . . .”
    “Okay, that was my fault.”
    “Don’t feel bad, Sam. That peat bog did jump right in front of us out of nowhere.”
    “Very funny.”
    “You got us out of it, though, and that’s what counts.”
    And he did. Using a short coil of rope, the car jack, a stump and a branch for leverage, and some well-applied basic physics.
    They drove in silence, watching the darkened countryside slide by until finally the lights of Princess Anne appeared a half mile down the road. Named after the daughter of King George II, the town—or hamlet, as many locals demanded it be called—boasted a population of 2,200 souls, not counting the students who called University of Maryland Eastern Shore their home. During their first trip here years ago, Sam and Remi had agreed if not for the cars on the streets and the electric lighting, it would take little effort to imagine you’d been transported back to Maryland’s prerevolutionary days, so quaint were parts of the hamlet of Princess Anne.
    Sam took Highway 13 into the middle of town, then turned east onto Mount Vernon Road, which he followed for a mile before turning north onto East Ridge Road. They were now on the outskirts of Princess Anne. Frobisher’s shop, whose second floor served as his apartment, was set a quarter mile back from the road down a long driveway bordered by maple trees.
    As Sam reached the turn-in, a black Buick Lucerne sedan pulled out of the driveway and passed them, heading south to Mount Vernon Road. As the BMW’s lights washed over the passing car’s windshield, Sam caught a glimpse of Ted Frobisher sitting in the passenger seat.
    “That was him,” Remi said.
    “Yeah, I know,” Sam muttered distantly.
    “What is it?”
    “Don’t know . . . Something about his face didn’t seem right.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    “He looked . . . scared.”
    “Ted Frobisher always looks scared. Or annoyed. Those are his only two expressions, you know that.”
    “Yeah, maybe,” Sam muttered, swinging the BMW into a precise Y-turn, backing into the driveway, then heading after the Lucerne.
    “Oh, boy,” Remi said, “here we go.”
    “Just humor me. Probably nothing.”
    “Fine. But if they pull into an IHOP, promise me you’ll turn around and leave the poor man alone.”
    “Deal.”

    The Lucerne did not pull into an IHOP, nor did it stay on the main road for very long, turning south onto Black Road after only a few miles. The streetlights had long since disappeared, leaving Sam and Remi driving in pitch blackness. The earlier drizzle had turned to a steady rain and the BMW’s windshield wipers beat out a rhythmic squeaking thump.
    “How’s your night vision?” Sam asked her.
    “Good . . . why?”
    In response, Sam turned off the BMW’s headlights and accelerated, closing the distance to the Lucerne’s taillights.
    Remi looked at her husband, her eyes narrowed. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”
    He nodded, jaw clenched. “Just a feeling. Hope I’m wrong.”
    “Me, too. You’re scaring