And the Maxwell, blackened and blistered.

And Bill, poor dead Bill, lying on the gravel where he’d been dragged out from under the car.

They hadn’t covered Bill’s body, and Adam’s eyes kept wandering to it, sickening him all over again. Medics were standing around him, but in the idle poses that said they had nothing to do, that Bill was far, far beyond anything they could do.

Adam lifted his eyes a little, to watch a uniformed policeman talking to one of the medics and taking notes as he listened to a reply.

The policeman gestured at Bill’s body, drawing Adam’s attention back to it, so he quickly turned his head to look at Bill’s car. There wasn’t a crumpled fender, a smashed headlight, even a dent, so there hadn’t been an accident. The Maxwell hadn’t run into anything, or been run into, or rolled over. It had been driven into this lay-by, which was perhaps an alternate parking lot for the church, now that Adam thought about it. The Maxwell was at the back of the graveled area, shaded by trees. Bill had probably pulled in here when the engine trouble that had plagued him all day got so bad he couldn’t continue the run. And Bill had slid under it to check something-no, fix something, because there were tools half-visible in the big puddle of dirty water that surrounded the car. The firemen had made that puddle, putting out the fire that had started while Bill was under it.

The car must have exploded into flame, because if it had been just an ordinary fire, Bill would have rolled out from under. And he hadn’t, he’d still been under it when the firemen arrived.

Interesting how Bill’s upper legs in their white flannel trousers were only a trifle smoky, his lower ones were untouched, and his brown leather shoes were unmarked by anything but a little dust. While the rest of him was so bad… Why can’t they cover him decently? Adam thought again, yanking his eyes away to watch a policewoman on the other end of the lay-by tying yellow plastic ribbon to a tree, pulling a length from a large roll, then walking to a wooden lamppost out near the road, letting the tape unreel on her wrist. Adam frowned at that, then looked at Bill’s Maxwell again. Crime scene tape? Why? Despite himself, his attention wandered back to Bill, but ricocheted instantly to the burned-out Maxwell.

There was the crime. What had happened to the car was a sorry crime. Despite its lack of dents, the old machine was history, its metal chassis blistered and blackened, the seats and dash and steering wheel all gone into a heap of ash and metal. Leaves on the branches that overhung the car-it was back here because Bill had sought shade, obviously-were withered or burned away, indicating this had been a serious fire. A great fire could be built from an antique car’s interior of varnished wood, leather, and straw stuffing, Adam knew.

The fire truck’s engine started up. Adam watched it, wondering what kind of horsepower it must pack. Heck of a sound to that engine. The truck was a pumper, the kind with a blocky back end, parked at an oblique angle beyond the Maxwell. The last few yards of hose were being neatly stowed into the back by two volunteer firemen who had taken off their hats in the heat.

Beyond the fire truck, two squad cars from the Minnetonka Police Department were side by side, and another squad from the Sheriff’s Department beside them, with a severely plain official automobile behind them. An ambulance-sized van with HENNEPIN COUNTY MED- ICAL EXAMINER painted on its door and rear end had parked between the body and the road, blocking the view of passersby. Cars on the road slowed to see what the fuss was about, naturally, but were being encouraged to move along by a cop who had put on soft white gloves to make his hands more visible. The last vehicle in the lay-by was Adam’s, a midnight blue sedan. He was standing outside it, leaning against the door because he was tired of standing. He considered opening his car door and sitting down, but decided against it.

Two men in civilian dark slacks and shirts were examining the Maxwell. One was standing on the far-side running board, getting black streaks on his white shirt; the other, in a light blue shirt and dark tie, gesturing while he asked a question. He then turned to gesture at a young woman in khaki slacks and green T-shirt who was taking photographs of the back end of the car. As Adam watched, the woman climbed up on the near running board, leaning forward to take a photograph and garner her own sooty streaks, which she brushed at with a weary, used-to-it sigh.

Meanwhile, one of the men went to stoop for a closer look at the nightmare ruin of Bill, to reach out and touch-Adam turned away again.

After a minute a voice said, “Mr. Smith?”

“Yes?” asked Adam, straightening.

“I’m Dr. Phillip Pascuzzi, with the Medical Examiner’s Office. May I ask you a few questions?” The man wore a white shirt and had a notebook in one hand.

“Certainly.”

“Was Mr. Birmingham a friend or relation?”

“He was a member of the Minnesota Antique Car Club, of which I am President. And he was a friend.”

Writing, “And you’re quite sure the body over there is, in fact, Mr. Birmingham?”

“Yes.” Adam swallowed. Having to go look closely at what had been Bill Birmingham was the worst thing he’d had to do in his entire life.

“The body is badly burned, especially around the upper body. What made you sure?”

“Well, he’s Bill’s size, and he’s wearing what Bill was wearing today, and the car is Bill’s. Nobody else driving in the Run is missing. I don’t see who else it could be.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Birmingham today?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“Where and when was this?”

“In Excelsior, this morning. He was having trouble with the car, and I said something about it, and he agreed it was running rough. As soon as he got parked along the curb, he opened the hood and began working on it. Didn’t quit until it was time to start back for St. Paul. He was the last to leave because his car didn’t want to start. After he left, we tore down in Excelsior and went to St. Paul to greet the cars as they came back and help them set up an exhibit over there. And when Bill didn’t turn up in St. Paul, I started driving back, following the route, looking for where he broke down.”

“I take it you didn’t follow the route the old cars took when you went to St. Paul.”

“No, we went out 7 and caught the freeway at 494.”

“So Mr. Birmingham was the last to leave Excelsior on this route. Everyone else was either ahead of him or went by another way.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The Antique Car Club had notified law enforcement agencies of the twisting route the antique cars would follow so they could come out and direct traffic or practice a little crowd control or at least be aware if there was a report of trouble involving an antique car, their choice.

“You didn’t suggest that perhaps he shouldn’t make the return trip?”

“No, our members usually have a pretty good idea whether or not their cars are able to continue a run. You have to realize, these cars are valuable, so most drivers are very reluctant to push a car even up to its limits. And Bill was proud of his Maxwells. I don’t think he’d get stupid about making a trip when a car wasn’t up to it. He tinkered with this one, and got it started and set off, so we assumed he’d be okay.”

“There’s a cell phone on the body. Why do you suppose he didn’t call for help when he broke down?”

“We were wondering why we hadn’t heard from him when he didn’t come in. Probably he got to working on it and time got away from him.”

“Is that also normal behavior for him?”

“Absolutely. It’s a common trait among car collectors. Bill’s wife complained more than once how he’d forget to come in to supper when he was out working on his cars. It’s very likely the trouble he was having today got bad enough to make him pull in here, where he tried to fix it or at least get the car able to finish the run. Then he got all wrapped up in what he was doing, and somewhere in there… this happened.”