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    Over the rumble of the demonstrators, I heard a revving engine. It was closer to me than to the cops and the crowd, and getting closer by the moment. I craned my neck around. There was no car in sight. Neither the crowd nor the cops seemed to take any notice of me, so I continued to meander through vehicles on my way to the entrance, my attention on the triple deck of supplies I was balancing. There was another shout from the crowd and behind me, a squeal of tires.
    I heard the scream first, then a horrid, sickening thud. The scream echoed from the concrete walls all around. Then the engine roared again and the tires screeched. Far over at the entrance, two uniformed cops started running in the direction of the scream. I willed myself to start breathing again, and looked around for Claire. Where was she? Had she seen what happened? My skin prickled. After being momentarily stilled, the demonstrators started up again with their "hoo-ha!" shouts that sounded like an ominous pep rally.
    When Claire did not appear I whacked the steamer, the bowl, and the vegetables down on the hood of a nearby Jeep.
    Unencumbered, I started briskly off in the area where I thought Claire had parked her Peugeot.
    I saw the policemen first. One was talking into his radio. The other knelt on the pavement. A woman was lying at his feet.
    Had she passed out? As I came closer, I realized the body could not have landed in that contorted way from a faint.
    The kneeling policeman looked up and saw me. "Get back!" he yelled. "We need to clear this area!"
    But I took no heed. Blood pooled on the cement near the inert body. The woman on the pavement was Claire.
    3
    I'm going to be ill. My mouth opened but no sound emerged. A car drove slowly by behind me. In one of its windows, children's faces gawked at the policemen. I lurched forward through a shock wave of car exhaust. Had Claire been struck by a car? But of course, that was the only explanation. There has to be some way I can help. Where was that vehicle I'd heard screeching through the garage? What were the two cops doing? Why wasn't someone else coming? I knew I would regret walking closer, but I kept moving forward anyway. My footsteps gritted loudly. Please let her be all right.
    "Go back," said the policeman again, this time in my face. His wide shoulders and deeply lined face loomed in front of me.
    He was not someone I knew. I murmured Claire's name and felt my knees buckle. Then the policeman seemed to change his mind. "Wait." His powerful hand gripped my elbow. "Did you see what happened? Do you know this woman? Were you with her?"
    "No. I mean, yes." It came out a croak. "I only..." What? My face was wet. Tears. When had I started to cry?
    The policeman's gruff voice insisted: "The woman who was hit-you knew her or not?" So Claire had been hit. Of course.
    The policeman's eyes bored into mine. Surely he didn't think I was responsible? "Her name?" he demanded.
    My mouth fumbled around Claire's name. I did not know her address. Julian would. Oh, God. Julian.
    Behind us people began to gather. The policeman sharply ordered them to stay back, then continued with curt questions:
    What exactly had I seen? Had I observed any vehicles before I heard the scream? Why was Claire in the garage? Not far away, the other uniformed cop continued to speak urgently into his radio. There was no movement from the twisted body on the pavement.
    The man questioning me took his fierce eyes off my face and looked over my shoulder. "Oh, good. Schulz," he murmured.
    I turned to see my husband walking swiftly toward us between parked cars. Relief rushed through me. Over his street clothes,
    Tom wore a raid jacket, a gray windbreaker with the Furman County Sheriff's Department logo emblazoned on the left pocket. The jacket was what the plainclothes police put on when they needed to distinguish themselves from regular folks. But distinguishing
    Tom Schulz from regular folks was not now, nor had it ever been,