"We used to call it the rules of the road," Scott remembered.
"I call it survival. Christ, sometimes I get so fucking horny, I swear the crack of dawn is in trouble."
Scott's mind played with the varied imagery of Miles' creative phraseology. The name was different, he thought, but the charac- ter was the same.
"You know," Scott said as the two stood on the deck, drinks in hand, soaking up the brisk lake air. "I really don't understand you."
"What's to understand?" Miles' gaze remained constant over the moonlit water.
"I see that you weren't overly detained the other evening."
"No reason to be. It was a terrible mistake. They must have me confused with someone else." Miles played dead pan.
"You know what I'm talking about," urged Scott. "The Spook and all that . . ."
"Fuck you!" Miles turned and yelled with hostility. He placed the glass of Glenfiddich on the railing and pointed his forefin- ger in Scott's face. "You're getting what you want, so back the fuck off. Got it?"
Scott's blood pressure joined his fight or flight response in panic. Was this the Mr. Hyde of Miles Foster? Or the real Spook? Had he blown it?