caught. His headlamps found the road as the lorry drivers demanded to know what had happened to the other vehicle. He didn't have time to tell them.
The lorry had headed west, away from the cottages, and he followed. Singleton was having trouble keeping it on the road at speed. By the time Rutledge caught him up, he could see the rear wheels swaying as Singleton took the curves.
Rutledge swore. To stop him meant finding a stretch where he could get ahead and block the road. He ran through the map in his mind, seeing where the bends would slow Singleton down, where he could gain time on the straightaway.
Singleton went through the next village far too fast, scattering people and brushing past a cart stopped at an angle in the road. The cart went winding, and someone cried out in pain.
Rutledge slowed, keeping Singleton in sight but trying not to hit anyone in his path. And they were out into the open again, moving far too fast for safety in the stormy light. Rutledge thought Singleton had a very good idea who was behind him, even if he couldn't see the motorcar for its bright headlamps.
There was a long straight stretch, enough for Rutledge to gun the motor and make an attempt to pass, but Singleton swung the lorry into his path, and it was all Rutledge could do to keep from plowing headlong into a stone wall where the road angled to the right.
Hamish was shouting now, telling him to watch what he was doing.
'Kill us both, and he'll go free,' Hamish reminded him.
Rutledge fell back. For the next mile or two there was a double bend, first one way, then a short interval, then the other way.
He wasn't sure the lorry could make that at speed, but Singleton had got the hang of driving it now and in the dark made the adjustments necessary to keep his lumbering vehicle on the road, though it swayed dangerously, the load it was carrying sometimes shifting with the curves.
The road was straight again, houses and a barn flashing past, a roadside pub and then a long looping bend.
Singleton wasn't prepared for it. He swung the lorry too hard around the first part of the bend, then overcompensated as he began to slip sideways on the rough surface. Dust flew up from his wheels and he lost speed as he struggled to keep himself upright.
The bend ended in another short, straight stretch, and then a copse of trees loomed ahead at the next bend. And then in the lorry headlamps a single bicyclist stood out with shocking clarity.
He had been lucky this far, Singleton had. The road had been empty and he had had the time and the strength to keep the wheel under control. But his first reaction as he saw the bicycle was to swerve, his tires failed to grip, and the side and rear of the lorry began to slide inexorably toward the oncoming bicycle.
It was like slow motion. Rutledge could see the bicycle, and then as the lorry slowly lost traction, it blotted the rider from view. The scream of the brakes was almost human, and like a juggernaut the lorry moved on, across the road now, blocking it from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlamps the bicycle rose in a gleaming silver arc, rising above the truck like a winged thing, and then the silver faded and it was lost to view.
Rutledge was braking with all the power of his arm, knowing it wasn't going to be in time, that either the bicycle could catch him or he would slam at speed into the side of the lorry.
He fought the wheel, heard the bicycle crash into something just to the left of him, and saw himself sliding too, this time sideways, and his brakes could do him no good.
Somehow Rutledge managed to gun the motor at the last, forward momentum clashing with his sideways slide.
He wound up in a field by the road, came to a jarring stop, and was out of the motorcar while it was still rocking heavily.
The lorry was crashing into the wood, trees snapping as the weight of the vehicle mowed into them, metal rending with a high-pitched whine that was earsplitting.
He couldn't see what had become of the rider, and his greatest fear was that whoever it was had been caught beneath the lorry wheels and dragged.
Suddenly everything was quiet.
From the verge of the road he heard a whimper, and went quickly toward it, cursing himself for not bringing his torch. There wasn't a light for miles, it seemed, except for the lorry's headlamps and his own.
She was lying in stubble and high grass, and he stumbled over a stone and nearly went headfirst into her.
He and Hamish saw her at the same time.
It was Sarah Parkinson, and she was badly injured. He thanked the gods wherever they were that she was still alive, and knelt beside her. He didn't know what had happened to Singleton and he didn't care.
His hand touched blood, wet and warm at the side of her head, and then as he ran his hands down her body, he could feel the odd angle of one arm. Broken, he thought, but the head wound was more serious.
She moaned as he touched her, and he was afraid to move her until he knew the extent of her injuries.
Another motorcar was coming from the east, and Rutledge stood up, not sure that the driver could see the lorry and his motorcar in time to realize what had happened. He moved to Sarah Parkinson's feet, prepared to wave off the other driver, but the motorcar slowed, then stopped.
'Is anyone hurt?' It was a woman's voice, frightened but steady. 'Hello? '
'Over here,' Rutledge called. 'Bring a torch, or fetch mine from my motorcar.'
The driver got out and ran toward Rutledge's motor, rummaging for the torch. Rutledge had a fleeting thought about Hamish, from long habit.
She came racing back, nearly tripping on the rough ground, torch in hand, flicking it on and shining it inadvertently into his face.
She stopped. 'Rutledge? What's going on?' she demanded, as if he had staged the accident to throw her off stride.
He said, 'It's your sister. I don't think the lorry struck her, but she's here on the side of the road, one arm broken and a cut on her head. If there are internal injuries-'
Rebecca was beside him, pushing him away, shining the light on her sister's face.
'Sarah? For God's sake-Sarah'
She began to work quickly, but there were tears spilling down her cheeks now and her voice began to quiver as she talked to her sister.
There was no response.
'I've killed her!' Rebecca Parkinson cried. 'We had a quarrel, it was my fault-I shouldn't have let her go alone in the dark-I tried to find her again-'
Her sister moaned, and Rebecca bent over her trying to cradle her head.
'Don't move her,' Rutledge cautioned. 'We don't know the ex- tent-you must go and find help at once. There's a village back the way I came, no more than three miles? Four? Go there and ask if there's a doctor.'
'I won't leave her. It's my fault, I tell you.'
He grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. 'Hysteria wastes any time she has left. Get in the motorcar and go. There's a murderer loose here, he was driving that lorry, and you can't stay here alone. Go.'
She stumbled back to her motorcar and got in, pushing her foot down on the gas pedal with such force that the car leapt ahead as she turned it and he heard a wheel of the bicycle crunch under the tires. But she bumped over it and kept going, disappearing into the darkness with such abandon he wondered if she would make it herself.
He used the light to look for more injuries, and then bound Sarah's head with his handkerchief to control the bleeding. As he moved her slightly, she cried out. Her arm or her back? He had no way of knowing.
Speaking to her quietly, he tried to reassure her, but she seemed not to know where she was or what was happening.
'A blessing,' Hamish said, at his shoulder.
Taking off his coat he rolled it and set it under the broken arm, then ran his hands down her legs. He could feel bloody bunches of stocking, blood soaking through her skirts, but there was no indication of a break on either.
She came to for a moment, and he said, 'Rebecca is here. She's gone for help. Hold on. It won't be
