"Yeah, okay, I'm leaving."

To muted applause, Morton shambled off the stage. Drake immediately stepped up to the podium and signaled the band. They started into a rousing rendition of Billy Joel's "You May Be Right," which someone had told them was Morton's favorite song. It was, but it seemed a poor choice under the circumstances.

Herb Lowenstein leaned over from the next table and grabbed Evans by the shoulder, pulling him close. "Listen," he whispered fiercely. "Get him out of here." "Get him out of here."

"I will," Evans said. "Don't worry."

"Did you know this was going to happen?"

"No, I swear to God."

Lowenstein released Evans just as George Morton returned to the table. The assembled group was stunned. But Morton was singing cheerfully with the music, "You may be right, I may be crazy..."

"Come on, George," Evans said, standing up. "Let's get out of here."

Morton ignored him. "...But it just may be a loo-natic you're looking for..."

"George? What do you say?" Evans took him by the arm. "Let's go."

"...Turn out the light, don't try to save me..."

"I'm not trying to save you," Evans said.

"Then how about another damn martini?" Morton said, no longer singing. His eyes were cold, a little resentful. "I think I fucking earned it."

"Harry will have one for you in the car," Evans said, steering Morton away from the table. "If you stay here, you'll have to wait for it. And you don't want to wait for a drink right now..." Evans continued talking, and Morton allowed himself to be led out of the room.

"...too late to fight," he sang, "too late to change me..."

Before they could get out of the room, there was a TV camera with lights shining in their faces, and two reporters shoving small tape recorders in front of Morton. Everybody was yelling questions. Evans put his head down and said, "Excuse us, sorry, coming through, excuse us..."

Morton never stopped singing. They made their way through the hotel lobby. The reporters were running in front of them, trying to get some distance ahead, so they could film them walking forward. Evans gripped Morton firmly by the elbow as Morton sang: "I was only having fun, wasn't hurting anyone, and we all enjoyed the weekend for a change..."

"This way," Evans said, heading for the door.

"I was stranded in the combat zone..."

And then at last they were through the swinging doors, and outside in the night. Morton stopped singing abruptly when the cold air hit him. They waited for his limousine to pull around. Sarah came out, and stood beside Morton. She didn't say anything, she just put her hand on his arm.

Then the reporters came out, and the lights came on again. And then Drake burst through the doors, saying "God damn it, George-"

He broke off when he saw the cameras. He glared at Morton, turned, and went back inside. The cameras remained on, but the three of them just stood there. It was awkward, just waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the limousine pulled up. Harry came around, and opened the door for George.

"Okay, George," Evans said.

"No, not tonight."

"Harry's waiting, George."

"I said, not tonight. not tonight."

There was a deep-throated growl in the darkness, and a silver Ferrari convertible pulled up alongside the limousine.

"My car," Morton said. He started down the stairs, lurching a bit.

Sarah said, "George, I don't think-"

But he was singing again: "And you told me not to drive, but I made it home alive, so you said that only proves that I'm in-sayyy-nnne."

One of the reporters muttered, "He's insane, all right."

Evans followed Morton, very concerned. Morton gave the parking attendant a hundred dollar bill, saying "A twenty for you, my good man." He fumbled with the Ferrari door. "These crummy Italian imports." Then he got behind the wheel of the convertible, gunned the engine, and smiled. "Ah, a manly sound."

Evans leaned over the car. "George, let Harry drive you. Besides," he added, "don't we need to talk about something?"

"We do not."

"But I thought-"

"Kid, get out of my way." The camera lights were still on them. But Morton moved so that he was in the shadow cast by Evans's body. "You know, the Buddhists have a saying."

"What saying?"

"Remember it, kid. Goes like this: 'All that matters is not remote from where the Buddha sits.'"

"George, I really think you should not be driving."

"Will you remember what I just said to you?"

"Yes."

"Wisdom of the ages. Good-bye, kid."

And he accelerated, roaring out of the parking lot as Evans jumped back. The Ferrari squealed around the corner, ignoring a stop sign, and was gone.

"Peter, come on."

Evans turned, and saw Sarah standing by the limousine. Harry was getting in behind the wheel. Evans got in the back seat with Sarah, and they drove off after Morton.

The Ferrari turned left at the bottom of the hill, disappearing around the corner. Harry accelerated, handling the huge limousine with skill.

Evans said, "Do you know where he's going?"

"No idea," she said.

"Who wrote his speech?"

"He did."

"Really?"

"He was working in the house all day yesterday, and he wouldn't let me see what he was doing..."

"Jesus," Evans said. "Montaigne?"

"He had a book of quotations out."

"Where'd he come up with Dorothy?"

She shook her head. "I have no idea."

They passed Golden Gate Park. Traffic was light; the Ferrari was moving fast, weaving among the cars. Ahead was the Golden Gate Bridge, brightly lit in the night. Morton accelerated. The Ferrari was going almost ninety miles an hour.

"He's going to Marin," Sarah said.

Evans's cell phone rang. It was Drake. "Will you tell me what the hell that was all about?"

"I'm sorry, Nick. I don't know."

"Was he serious? About withdrawing his support?"

"I think he was."

"That's unbelievable. He's obviously suffered a nervous breakdown."

"I couldn't say."

"I was afraid of this," Drake said. "I was afraid something like this might happen. You remember, on the plane coming back from Iceland? I said it to you, and you told me I shouldn't worry. Is that your opinion now? That I shouldn't worry?"

"I don't know what you're asking, Nick."

"Ann Garner said he signed some papers on the plane."

"That's right. He did."

"Are they related to this sudden and inexplicable withdrawal of support for the organization that he loved and cherished?"

"He seems to have changed his mind about that," Evans said.

"And why didn't you tell me?"

"He instructed me not to."

"Fuck you, Evans."

"I'm sorry," Evans said.

"Not as sorry as you will be."

The phone went dead. Drake had hung up. Evans flipped the phone shut.

Sarah said, "Drake is mad?"

"Furious."

Off the bridge, Morton headed west, away from the lights of the freeway, onto a dark road skirting the cliffs. He was driving faster than ever.

Evans said to Harry, "Do you know where we are?"

"I believe we're in a state park."

Harry was trying to keep up, but on this narrow, twisting road, the limousine was no match for the Ferrari. It moved farther and farther ahead. Soon they could see only the taillights, disappearing around curves a quarter mile ahead.

"We're going to lose him," Evans said.

"I doubt it, sir."

But the limousine fell steadily behind. After Harry took one turn too fast-the big rear end lost traction and swung wide toward a cliff's edge-they were obliged to slow down even more. They were in a desolate area now. The night was dark and the cliffs deserted. A rising moon put a streak of silver on the black water far below.

Up ahead, they no longer saw any taillights. It seemed they were alone on the dark road.

They came around a curve, and saw the next curve a hundred yards ahead-obscured by billowing gray smoke.

"Oh no," Sarah said, putting her hand to her mouth.

The Ferrari had spun out, struck a tree, and flipped over. It now lay upside down, a crumpled and smoking mass. It had very nearly gone off the cliff itself. The nose of the car was hanging over the edge.

Evans and Sarah ran forward. Evans got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the cliff's edge, trying to see into the driver's compartment. It was hard to see much of anything-the front windshield was flattened, and the Ferrari lay almost flush to the pavement. Harry came over with a flashlight, and Evans used it to peer inside.

The compartment was empty. Morton's black bow tie was dangling from the doorknob, but otherwise he was gone.

"He must have been thrown."

Evans shone the light down the cliff. It was crumbling yellow rock, descending steeply for eighty feet to the ocean below. He saw no sign of Morton.

Sarah was crying softly. Harry had gone back to get a fire extinguisher from the limousine. Evans swung his light back and forth over the rock face. He did not see George's body. In fact, he did not see any sign of George at all. No disturbance, no path, no bits of clothing. Nothing.

Behind him he heard the whoosh of the fire extinguisher. He crawled away from the cliff's edge.

"Did you see him, sir?" Harry said, his face full of pain.

"No. I didn't see anything."

"Perhaps...over there." Harry pointed toward the tree. And he was right; if Morton had been thrown from the car by the initial impact, he might be twenty yards back, on the road.

Evans walked back, and shone his flashlight down the cliff again. The battery was running down, the beam was weakening. But almost immediately, he saw a glint of light off a man's patent leather slipper, wedged among the rocks at the edge of the water.