"The next morning, we got up and there was Martin's car in the driveway with a ribbon tied around the hood ornament. He'd come in silently in the middle of the night and left it. There was a note on the seat that said congratulations and that he used Pennzoil in it. The registration was signed over to Patrick. I mean, we didn't even have a car. The next week, away we went, rocking down the coast to a new life."
"Nice, that was nice," Cree said.
"Patrick was fanatic about the car. He changed the oil about once a month. Jesus. It was a great old car though; we used it all through graduate school. It was still running when we came out to the west coast. Patrick's father loved it. We left it with him." There was a second burst of shrill cries; arms held high moved in the other direction. Mustangs even, 1-1.
"See," Cree said. "Are you in touch with Martin?"
"We talk on the phone every once in a while. He still lives in Woodstock; he's got a recording business. We try to visit every couple of years, but you know how it is. Time keeps flying by."
"Scary," Cree said.
"Remember that guy, Wendell? He was a hunk."
"He was."
"Did he ever show up again?"
"Not while I was there," Cree said. "He nearly killed Sam; he had to disappear. He just did get away."